(/ID 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

MRS.   MARY  WOLFSOHN^ 

IN   MEMORY  OF  \ 

HENRY  WOLFSOHN       "F"7|| 


-VJlrsKA, 

vxnU)        v-cui 


tXAL>b--Q_J£JL_^^ 


\\  -  v    o 


Mary  Hanford   Ford 


Copyright,  1904. 
BY  H.  M.  CALDWEivL  Co. 


P? 


of 


PARSIFAL  has  become  a  part  of  the  daily 
life  of  the  world,  a  mystery  of  holy  liv- 
ing enacted  before   all  eyes,   and   played 
upon  a  stage  erected  in  each  heart.     Many  will 
not  be  able  to  witness  the  performance  of  Wag- 
ner's  great   drama,   or  listen   to   its   wonderful 
music,  but  all  wish  to  become  familiar  with  its 
story  and  meaning,  to  understand  the  genesis 
of  its  rich  harmonies.     To  such  waiting  audi- 
tors this  little  book  flies  forth,  hoping  that  it 
may  have  treasured  and  enshrined  some  portion 
of  that  mystic  spell  which  for  many  ages  has 
lent  charm  and  glory  to  the  name  of  Parsifal. 
1 


tf 


It  may  be  as  well  to  recall  in  the  beginning 
the  scenes  and  incidents  of  Wagner's  master- 
piece, so  that  the  connection  may  be  more 
closely  drawn  between  its  achievement  and  the 
legends  and  poems  which  have  preceded  it  in  an 
earlier  day. 

When  the  curtain  rises  upon  the  three  acts 
of  the  music-drama,  the  senses  of  the  spectators 
have  been  prepared  for  the  pictured  story  by 
the  wonderfully  intermingled  motifs  and  har- 
monies of  a  Vorspiel  which  precedes  each  portion 
of  the  opera.  The  first  of  these  lovely  preludes 
ends  with  the  exquisite  strains  of  the  Grail 
music,  and  the  curtain  rises  upon  the  peaceful 
environment  of  the  castle  of  Monsalvat,  where 
Gurnemanz,  the  leader  of  the  Grail  guardians, 
is  at  morning  prayer  with  his  followers,  while 
the  trumpets  sound,  and  the  cortege  of  Am- 
fortas,  the  wounded  king,  approaches.  He  is 
about  to  bathe  in  the  lake,  the  waters  of  which 
are  blessed  by  the  beautiful  swans  which  live 

2 


of 

and  rest  upon  its  bosom,  and  by  their  ministra- 
tion assuage  the  suffering  of  the  stricken  mon- 
arch. 

The  procession  halts  while  the  king  may  rest, 
and  then  Kundry  enters  the  scene,  breathless 
from  a  journey  upon  her  flying  horse  to  far 
Arabia,  to  obtain  a  balsam  which  she  hopes 
may  bring  healing  to  the  king.  She  is  the  slave 
of  mighty  Klingsor,  the  magician.  Long  ago, 
in  the  days  when  Christ  taught  the  lesson  of 
love  to  mankind,  she  was  that  beautiful  Herodias 
who  laughed  at  the  Saviour  as  he  was  bearing 
his  cross  to  Calvary.  As  a  punishment  for  her 
sin,  she  must  wander  for  years,  until  she  finds 
a  saviour  who  will  love  her  with  a  selfless  love, 
and  thus  lift  the  curse  from  her. 

She  has  known  many  sad  lives  since  the  period 
of  her  sin,  and  at  the  opening  of  the  drama  she 
is  pathetically  awakened  to  the  horror  of  her 
slavery,  and,  though  compelled  by  Klingsor  to 
ensnare  good  knights,  and  especially  the  knights 

3 


of  the  Grail,  she  snatches  every  free  moment  for 
deeds  of  mercy  and  kindness. 

Klingsor  has  always  been  the  enemy  of  the 
Grail.  Years  before,  when  it  was  first  entrusted 
to  King  Titurel,  the  father  of  Amfortas,  the 
magician  swore  to  become  its  possessor.  The 
sacred  lance  or  spear  with  which  Christ  had  been 
wounded  on  the  cross  was  also  given  to  Titurel. 
Klingsor  established  his  palace  near  Monsalvat, 
and  surrounded  it  with  magic  gardens,  filled 
with  all  that  can  enchant  the  senses.  Kundry 
fell  into  the  power  of  the  wizard,  and  by  her 
fascination  was  able  to  ensnare  Amfortas,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  hereditary  guardian 
of  the  sacred  treasure. 

In  a  contest  with  Klingsor,  the  king  was 
overpowered;  the  magician  seized  the  spear, 
and  with  it  gave  the  king  the  wound  from  which 
he  had  suffered  for  so  many  years.  He  could 
not  be  relieved  until  "  the  sinless  fool,"  "  der 
reine  Thor,"  should  come  to  the  Grail  castle, 

4 


of 

"  enlightened  by  pity,"  and  touch  the  bleeding 
sore  with  the  very  weapon  which  had  inflicted 
the  wound.  This  message,  in  regard  to  the 
restoration  of  the  afflicted  one,  had  appeared  in 
illuminated  letters  about  the  sacred  cup,  and 
since  that  moment  the  king  and  his  companions 
had  looked  constantly  for  the  appearance  of 
the  destined  saviour. 

All  these  facts  are  revealed  to  the  listener 
in  the  conversation  which  ensues  between  Gurne- 
manz  and  Kundry,  when  the  cortege  of  the  king 
has  moved  onward  to  the  lake.  The  wise  old 
man  comforts  the  saddened  woman,  and  tells  her 
that  evil  vanishes  when  replaced  by  good  — 
"  Das  Bose  bannt,  wer's  mit  Gutem  vergilt." 

He  has  barely  finished  his  story  of  the  long- 
expected  guileless  one,  the  sinless  fool,  when  all 
are  startled  by  the  whizzing  of  an  arrow,  and 
the  fall  of  one  of  the  carefully  guarded  swans. 
A  moment  later  Parsifal  rushes  upon  the  scene, 
proudly  confessing  that  he  shot  the  swan  upon 

5 


the  wing.  He  listens  in  surprise,  and  then 
with  deep  contrition,  to  the  eloquent  reproach 
of  Gurnemanz.  Suddenly,  as  he  realizes  the 
shame  of  killing  a  beautiful,  harmless  creature, 
he  breaks  his  bow,  and  declares  that  never  again 
will  he  destroy  innocent  life! 

Afterward  he  talks  with  Kundry,  who  tells 
him  he  is  the  son  of  Gahmuret,  and  informs 
him  of  his  mother's  death.  The  boy  is  angry 
and  distressed,  and  inveighs  against  Kundry 
in  youthful  heat,  until  Gurnemanz  again  re- 
proves him,  and  assures  him  that  Kundry  always 
speaks  the  truth.  Parsifal  then  grows  calm, 
and  describes  his  life  in  the  forest  with  his 
mother,  and  the  brilliantly  accoutred  knights  — 
"  glanzende  Manner  "  —  whom  he  followed 
eagerly  until  he  stumbled  upon  the  precincts 
of  beautiful  Monsalvat. 

Gurnemanz  has  watched  the  boy  carefully, 
and  suspects  that  he  may  be  the  guileless  one 
for  whom  all  are  waiting,  so  he  leads  him  up- 

6 


ward  to  the  Grail  castle,  and  then  begins  the 
wonderful  music  of  the  bells,  which  continues 
all  through  the  holy  and  uplifting  service  of 
the  uncovering  of  the  Grail.  The  great  trans- 
formation scene,  which  reveals  the  Grail  cham- 
ber, has  been  one  of  the  marvels  of  the  perf  orm- 
ance  of  Bayreuth,  and  nothing  could  be  more 
imposing  and  inspiring  than  the  feast  of  the 
Grail  as  it  is  portrayed  in  the  melodious  drama, 
with  the  accompaniment  of  its  ethereal  and 
angelic  music. 

There  can  be  no  death  to  those  who  see  the 
Grail,  so  Titurel,  the  aged  father  of  Amfortas, 
has  lived  on,  supported  by  the  glorious  Presence 
of  the  uncovered  cup,  and  the  refreshing  descent 
of  the  snowy  dove,  which  brings  blessing  to  all 
who  are  privileged  to  partake  of  the  divine  ban- 
quet. The  uncovering  of  the  Grail  renders  the 
suffering  of  Amfortas  so  poignant  that  he 
shrinks  from  the  office  which  obliges  him  to 
lift  the  sacred  vessel  himself,  while  its  crystal 

7 


outline  glows  with  radiant  light  as  the  dove 
descends.  He  begs  Titurel  to  perform  the 
service  which  brings  joy  to  every  heart  except 
his  own,  but  the  aged  monarch  insists  that  it 
is  his  son's  duty,  and  so  the  suffering  king 
reluctantly  puts  aside  his  pain,  and  reveals  the 
holy  chalice.  The  bread  and  wine  are  shared 
as  in  the  sacrament  of  communion,,  and  all  the 
guests  at  the  heavenly  table  are  blessed  and 
sustained  by  the  ministration. 

Parsifal  is  asked  to  join  the  others,  but  he 
looks  on  wonderingly  and  says  nothing,  so 
Gurnemanz  asks  him,  sharply :  "  Did  you  under- 
stand what  you  saw? "  and  then  pushes  him 
from  the  holy  interior,  with  angry  countenance, 
crying : 

"  Away,  gander,  and  find  yourself  a  goose ! " 

The  inspiration  of  faith  and  hope  is  recalled 

at  the  conclusion  of  the  act,  however,  by  the 

thrilling    cadence    of    a    single    voice    singing, 

"  The  sinless  fool  through  pity  enlightened !  " 

8 


Of 

This  is  strengthened  by  the  entire  chorus,  which 
bursts  forth  with  "  Selig  im  Glauben !  Selig 
im  Glauben !  "  "  Blessed  in  Faith !  "  as  the  cur- 
tain falls. 

The  commencement  of  the  second  act,  with 
its  Vorspiel,  is  like  a  descent  from  heaven  to 
hell,  for  it  opens  with  the  Klingsor  music,  and 
a  view  of  the  interior  of  the  magician's  palace, 
revealing  his  own  secret  cell  with  the  magic 
mirror,  in  which  all  that  happens  in  the  world 
of  interest  to  the  magician  is  sure  to  be  reflected. 
Klingsor  summons  Kundry  and  commands  her, 
in  spite  of  her  heart-broken  pleading,  to  accom- 
plish the  ruin  of  Parsifal,  and  thus  render  it 
impossible  for  him  to  heal  the  suffering  Am- 
fortas. 

The  next  scene  introduces  us  to  the  marvellous 
garden  surrounding  Klingsor's  palace,  where 
we  see  Parsifal  in  his  play  with  the  maidens, 
who  are  transformed  flowers.  He  has  never 
seen  any  woman  except  his  mother,  previous  to 

9 


his  meeting  with  Kundry,  and  his  innocence  feels 
no  temptation  in  the  interlacing  arms  of  the 
charming  companions  whose  breath  touches  his 
cheek.  He  begs  them  to  keep  farther  from 
him,  and  exclaims: 

"  How  sweet  they  smell !  Are  they  flowers  ?  " 
In  the  scene  with  the  maidens  the  music  is 
enchanting,  with  its  interweaving  melodies,  com- 
bining the  motifs  of  Parsifal,  of  Kundry,  and 
the  magic  spell,  with  lovely  and  ethereal  tunes 
and  harmonies  which  seem  to  unite  every  sug- 
gestion of  a  fragrant  garden  wilderness.  Blos- 
somy  pathways  and  purest  love,  maidenly  fancy 
in  which  passion  has  no  part,  describe  the  charm- 
ing sentiment  of  these  numbers.  They  offer 
the  strongest  contrast  to  the  passionate,  tragic, 
almost  painful  passages  which  are  heard  immedi- 
ately afterward,  and  accompany  the  stormy  and 
dramatic  scene  of  Parsifal's  interview  with 
Kundry,  whom  he  does  not  recognize  at  first 
in  her  guise  of  beautiful  enchantress.  The  long 

10 


of 

story  of  his  mother's  life  and  suffering  is  in 
the  beginning  the  most  salient  feature  of  the 
meeting.  Kundry  seems  to  bring  before  the 
very  eyes  of  the  boy,  with  the  magic  of  her 
art,  the  figure  of  his  mother  and  the  realization 
of  her  loss,  so  that  the  anguished  youth  leaps 
from  his  place  beside  her  with  a  bitter  cry  of: 

"  Precious  mother !  How  could  I  forget 
you!" 

Having  roused  the  tenderness  of  his  nature, 
she  describes  to  him  the  love  his  father  bore  his 
mother,  and  concludes  with  the  passionate  em- 
brace which  is  intended  to  illustrate  the  love  of 
his  parents  for  each  other,  and  stir  temptation 
in  the  soul  of  the  "  sinless  fool."  The  result, 
however,  is  the  awakening  of  that  divine  pity 
which  is  to  save  Parsifal  first,  and  then  enable 
him  to  heal  Amfortas.  The  boy  springs  to  his 
feet  again,  with  a  wild  exclamation  expressive  of 
the  feeling  in  his  heart. 


11 


"  Oh,  miserable  one !  Oh,  anguished  sufferer ! 
I  saw  the  wounds  bleed !  " 

Kundry's  curse  follows,  but  Parsifal  scarcely 
hears  its  condemnation  to  "  wander,  wander !  " 
He  sees  beside  him  the  figure  of  the  Saviour  of 
men,  revealed  in  a  radiant  vision,  and  his  entire 
being  is  penetrated  with  the  uplift  of  selfless 
love.  So  when  Klingsor  pauses  upon  the  garden 
wall,  and  hurls  at  him  the  spear  with  which 
Christ  was  pierced,  with  which  the  magician 
in  turn  had  wounded  Amf  ortas,  the  "  reine 
Thor  "  stands  unterrified,  seizes  the  spear,  and 
with  the  sign  of  the  cross  destroys  the  magic 
of  the  wizard's  pleasure  place,  so  that  it  crum- 
bles into  meaningless  dust.  Parsifal  turns  away, 
and  the  curtain  falls,  as  the  thrilling  music 
mingles  the  motifs  of  the  Grail,  the  lament  of 
the  maidens,  the  magic  of  Klingsor,  and  that 
heavenly  yearning  which  lifts  mankind  from  the 
storm  of  passion  to  great  peace. 

The  third  act  opens  after  the  Vorspiel  has 

12 


of  iJ  are  if  ale 

pictured  the  wandering  of  Parsifal  for  five  long 
years.  Then  at  last  he  approaches  the  Grail 
castle.  He  rides  fully  armed,  though  it  is  Good 
Friday,  when  the  Church  commands  all  true 
knights  to  lay  aside  their  armour. 

All  the  opening  music  of  the  third  act  por- 
tends the  coming  peace  and  the  cessation  of  suf- 
fering. There  is  a  suggestion  of  Easter  glad- 
ness and  spring-like  happiness  in  the  flowery 
passages  which  combine  with  the  holy  sweetness 
of  the  Good  Friday  spell,  the  Parsifal  motif, 
and  that  of  Kundry's  redemption.  The  promise 
of  the  glorious  end  is  already  suggested  in  the 
rising  picture  of  Kundry's  repentance. 

Gurnemanz  has  discovered  Kundry  weeping 
for  her  sins.  Parsifal  is  immediately  and  joy- 
fully recognized  by  the  spear  he  bears,  for  it 
is  that  which  Klingsor  hurled  at  him  from  the 
garden  wall.  Gurnemanz  has  waited  impa- 
tiently for  his  reappearance,  knowing  that  he 


13 


must  return  at  the  appointed  time  and  heal  the 
king. 

Kundry  serves  him  with  gladness.  She  serves 
all  faithfully,  hoping  to  win  thereby  salvation 
for  her  soul.  She  bathes  his  feet,  and  receives 
baptism  from  his  hand.  Gurnemanz  anoints 
him  King  of  the  Grail,  and  then  conducts  him 
to  the  marvellous  chamber  where  the  mysterious 
treasure  is  preserved,  and  where  at  last  the 
suffering  monarch  shall  be  healed. 

The  Grail  is  uncovered,  and  its  crystal  globe 
illumined  by  a  shaft  of  crimson  light.  The  aged 
Titurel  is  at  peace,  for  he  knows  at  last  that 
the  sin  of  the  Grail  keeper  is  washed  out.  The 
white  dove  descends  to  bring  the  blessing  of 
Heaven,  Kundry  gives  up  her  life  upon  the 
altar  steps,  the  entire  scene  is  irradiated  by 
glorious  illumination,  the  chorus  breaks  into 
the  exquisite  paean  of  salvation: 

"  Erlosung  dem  Erloser  !  Erlosung  dem 
Erloser!"  "Salvation  to  the  Saviour!" 

14 


of 

The  secret  of  the  Grail  is  spoken  in  these 
words  of  Wagner's  chorus,  for  they  seem  to 
unite  the  world  in  the  golden  circle  of  love, 
which  includes  for  ever  the  unity  of  God  and 
man. 

No  one  has  treated  the  Grail  theme  so  elab- 
orately as  Wagner,  and  no  one  before  his  time 
could  have  accompanied  the  words  of  the  poem 
with  music  so  exquisite  in  its  power  to  express 
that  strange,  unutterable  something  which  it  is 
beyond  the  compass  of  words  to  portray.  The 
varying  power  of  the  different  motifs  naturally 
appeals  in  diverse  fashion  to  the  senses  of  listen- 
ing auditors,  but  the  exquisite  thrilling  cadence 
of  the  Grail  melody,  the  soul-stirring  crescendo 
in  the  positive  cheerful  note  of  the  faith  motif, 
the  strength  of  Parsifal's  song,  can  surely  never 
be  forgotten  by  those  who  are  fortunate  enough 
to  have  become  familiar  with  them. 

As  we  turn  from  Wagner's  rich  and  encom- 
passing Grail  drama  to  the  work  of  his  prede- 

15 


cessors,  we  are  amazed  not  only  at  their 
number,  but  at  the  jewelled  and  glittering 
wealth  of  their  production.  Ever  since  the  world 
began  there  have  been  singers,  for  men  must 
sing  as  well  as  eat  and  work,  as  the  economists 
sometimes  forget.  The  singers,  the  poets,  the 
prophets  have  been  the  light-bringers,  and  among 
all  the  songs  that  have  lifted  the  burdens  from 
the  shoulders  of  mankind,  none  has  been  sung  so 
constantly  through  the  ages  as  the  heavenly 
song  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

Sometimes  it  is  Galahad  who  seeks  the  chalice, 
and  brings  it  from  its  hiding-place,  that  men 
may  rejoice  once  more;  sometimes,  and  most 
gloriously,  it  is  Parsifal  who  enters  the  Grail 
castle  and  restores  the  treasure;  but  the  singer 
is  always  gazing  into  the  heavens  as  he  touches 
his  harp,  and  its  golden  strings  thrill  with  that 
joyous  pain,  that  sweet  wisdom,  which  lingers 
ever  in  the  heart  of  man,  and  reminds  us  that, 
if  he  is  half -human,  he  is  also  half  an  angel. 

16 


of  JKurfii ifals 

The  critics  can  never  agree  as  to  the  origin 
of  the  Grail  legends;  even  the  strict  meaning 
of  Grail,  or  Graal,  is  uncertain.  Some  investi- 
gators are  inclined  to  believe  that  it  springs 
originally  from  a  Latin  word  Gradalis,  mean- 
ing prayer-book,  and  rose  from  the  fact  that 
the  words  of  the  poem  were  once  written  in  such 
a  volume,  but  this  is  not  very  probable,  and  we 
are  more  interested  in  the  undoubted  fact  that 
the  beginnings  of  the  legends  are  lost  in  the 
darkness  of  early  Christian  days.  The  first 
singer  has  not  left  us  his  name,  but  we  can  be 
certain  that  he  was  a  minstrel  who  carried  his 
harp  through  wild  pathways  and  trackless  for- 
ests, to  seek  admission  at  last  in  some  lonely 
castle,  where  his  song  ensured  him  a  royal  wel- 
come. There  he  sat  in  the  great  banquet-hall, 
and  touched  his  harp  before  an  audience  of 
mailed  knights  and  jewelled  ladies,  while  a 
younger  aspirant  for  fame,  who  perhaps  had 
borne  his  precious  instrument  across  the  country, 

17 


craved  the  privilege  of  sitting  nearest  the  in- 
spired one,  who  first  lifted  his  voice  in  the  meas- 
ure of  this  unwritten  song,  the  wondrous  mys- 
tery of  the  Holy  Grail ! 

We  so  naturally  associate  the  names  of  Parsi- 
fal and  Galahad  with  the  history  of  the  Grail 
that  we  are  surprised  to  discover  how  simply 
the  tale  was  told  in  the  early  days.  It  is  not 
until  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  that 
we  find  it  connected  with  Arthur's  court,  and 
the  achievements  of  his  knights.  None  of  our 
existing  manuscripts  of  Grail  poems  date  earlier 
than  the  fourteenth  century,  but  it  is  easy  to 
detect,  in  the  quaint  and  primitive  form  of 
some  of  them,  the  unskilled  hand  of  an  early  and 
unlettered  singer.  Among  these  the  sweet  old 
poem  of  Joseph  of  Arimathea  is  an  excellent 
illustration  of  the  legend  in  its  simpler  form. 

It  tells  us  of  how  Joseph,  who  was  the  friend 
of  Jesus,  had  been  present  during  that  wonder- 
ful hour  when  he  sat  at  table  for  the  last  time 

18 


of 

with  his  disciples,  and  gave  them  his  farewell. 
Joseph  had  left  the  chamber  where  the  meal  was 
served,  but,  as  his  memory  lingered  over  the 
wise  words  of  his  loved  Master,  he  felt  that  he 
must  have  a  memorial  of  that  hour  so  rich  in 
meaning,  and  he  returned  to  the  supper-room, 
to  find  the  table  still  standing  with  the  remains 
of  the  feast  upon  it.  He  took  joyfully  the 
silver  cup  from  which  all  had  drunk,  and  which 
Jesus  had  shared  with  his  disciples,  and  hid  it 
in  the  folds  of  his  mantle. 

As  he  stood  later  in  the  darkness  of  Calvary, 
Joseph  still  held  the  cup  in  his  arms,  and  when 
the  Roman  soldier  pierced  the  side  of  the 
Master,  Joseph  lifted  the  cup,  and  caught  in 
it  the  sacred  blood  shed  so  willingly  by  the 
great  Lover  of  mankind.  After  it  had  served 
so  sacred  a  purpose,  the  cup  could  never  fall 
into  any  ordinary  use.  Joseph  preserved  it 
with  its  holy  contents,  and  it  became  his  guard- 


19 


ian    and    inspiration,    his    spiritual    comforter, 
the  Holy  Grail. 

Joseph  lost  his  possessions,  and  was  thrown 
into  prison,  was  left  to  starve  in  a  high  tower, 
but  the  cup  was  with  him,  and  no  harm  could 
come  to  him !  Something  like  forty  years  he 
lingered  behind  stone  walls,  but  when  he  was 
liberated,  he  declared  it  seemed  to  him  only 
three  days  and  three  nights,  because  the  Grail 
was  with  him!  He  had  been  condemned  to 
starvation,  but  the  angels  spread  for  him  the 
table  of  the  Grail,  and  he  was  fed  daily  with 
what  he  liked  best  to  eat  and  to  drink !  His 
confinement  was  to  be  solitary,  but  glorious 
winged  visitors  floated  through  the  stone  walls 
of  his  prison,  bringing  him  strong  words  of 
heavenly  consolation,  and  the  Master  whom 
he  had  seen  hanging  upon  the  cross,  sat  with 
him  long  hours,  and  taught  him  wisdom  which 
he  could  not  have  learned  from  any  other 
source!  Was  it  any  wonder  that  his  confine- 

20 


of 

ment  seemed  to  him  only  three  nights  and  three 
days  in  duration,  after  he  was  set  free? 

When  that  glad  hour  came,  the  Master  said 
to  him,  "  Son,  go  thou  forth  and  carry  my 
message  to  many  lands ! " 

Then  Joseph  was  sorrowful,  and  replied: 

"  Master,  I  have  always  been  slow  of  speech, 
and  I  cannot  be  a  preacher." 

"  Son,"  said  the  Shining  One,  with  gentle  en- 
couragement, "  trouble  not  as  to  thy  words, 
but  open  thy  lips  and  speech  shall  be  given 
thee!" 

So  Joseph  left  his  prison  walls,  went  to  the 
shores  of  the  sea,  where  a  white  boat  carried 
him  to  Britain.  Then  joy  came  to  that  land, 
the  great  Abbey  of  Glastonbury  was  built  to 
hold  the  Grail,  the  hawthorn  bloomed  at  Christ- 
mas-time because  the  Grail  had  come,  and  the 
nightingale  sang  in  its  branches ! 

As  time  passed,  each  singer  added  his  note 
to  the  Grail  message,  so  that  the  great  groups 

21 


of  Grail  poems,  gathering  about  the  names  of 
Parsifal  and  Galahad,  form  a  rich  symposium, 
preserving  the  feeling  of  the  ages  in  regard 
to  the  mystic  union  of  the  soul  and  God.  For 
that  is  the  symbolism  of  the  Grail.  Whether 
the  poet  figures  it  as  a  cup  which  has  held  the 
blood  of  Christ,  or  as  a  marvellous  green  stone, 
as  does  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach,  he  sees  in 
the  outward  semblance  that  rich  and  never 
forgotten  moment  of  ecstasy  which  Emerson 
so  eloquently  pictures  in  his  essay  of  the  Over 
Soul,  when  the  human  spirit  finds  its  union 
with  the  Divine  One  beyond  and  above  us  all. 
So  he  who  has  the  Grail  has  all.  He  can 
never  suffer  hunger  or  thirst,  he  can  never  be 
imprisoned,  never  experience  the  anguish  of 
one  who  knows  not  love,  for  he  has  all  wisdom, 
all  love,  all  the  possibilities  of  human  achieve- 
ment in  the  sacred  and  inspiring  presence  of 
the  wondrous  treasure  which  lifts  the  human 


22 


soul  out  of  its  narrow  confines,  and  opens  to 
it  the  infinite. 

The  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  bring 
us  the  long  and  more  pretentious  Grail  epics 
which  connect  the  heroic  achievements  of  Par- 
sifal and  Galahad  with  the  simple  devotional 
legend  of  an  earlier  time.  These  are  the  great 
centuries,  also,  of  the  Crusades  and  of  the  first 
whisperings  of  heresy  in  the  Church,  so  it  is 
not  strange  that  the  Grail  singers  broadened 
their  theme,  and  deepened  their  note.  The 
time  was  one  which  really  marks  the  modern 
awakening  of  the  human  soul,  and  it  was  but 
natural  that  the  minstrel  who  first  wandered 
far  from  the  scenes  of  his  birth  should  find 
new  and  richer  meanings  in  the  song  which  he 
had  heard  sung  by  an  earlier  bard. 

The  critics  are  agreed  to-day  that  the  Gala- 
had cycle  of  poems,  with  which  American  and 
English  readers  are  most  familiar,  is  of  later 
date,  and  that  the  first  Grail  hero,  whose  deeds 

23 


the  poets  delighted  to  celebrate,  was  the  gra- 
cious and  inspiring  figure  of  Parsifal.  The 
long  epics  of  the  Great  Holy  Grail,  Launcelot, 
and  the  Quest  are  supposed  to  have  been  writ- 
ten in  Latin,  by  Walter  Map,  in  the  twelfth, 
or  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
They  were  early  translated  into  the  Northern 
French  of  the  Trouveres,  and  their  Latin  orig- 
inals have  long  since  disappeared.  They  formed 
the  foundation  of  Sir  Thomas  Malory's  noble 
"  Morte  d' Arthur,"  and  from  that  source 
have  become  infiltrated  through  all  English  lit- 
erature. 

The  Parsifal  poems  are  many,  and  of  vary- 
ing interest,  the  most  important,  aside  from 
the  great  "  Parzival,"  *  by  Wolfram  von  Es- 

1  The  spelling  of  the  same  proper  names  is  sometimes  very 
different,  in  old  French  and  German  and  in  modern  times. 
For  instance,  Wagner's  hero,  Parsifal,  is  called  Parzival  in  the 
old  High  German  of  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach.  The  same 
name  has  the  forms  of  Perchevaus  in  the  old  Northern  French 
of  Chrestien  de  Troyes,  it  is  Peredur  in  Welsh,  Percival  or 

24 


of  $)  airs  if  ale 

chenbach,  being  "  Li  Contes  del  Graal,"  by 
Chrestien  de  Troyes,  the  Portuguese  prose  ro- 
mance, by  Perceval  le  Gallois,  the  German  poem, 
"  Die  Krone,"  by  Heinrich  von  dem  Turlin,  and 
the  Celtic  story  of  Peredur. 

The  Parsifal  ideals  were  gathered  and  cen- 
tred in  the  momentous  epic  of  "  Parzival,"  writ- 
ten by  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  thirteenth  century,  which  so  far  has 
remained  the  greatest  Grail  poem  of  the  world. 
Its  spirit  has  penetrated  German  literature, 
and  has  reappeared  most  eloquently  in  Wagner's 
lovely  music-drama  of  Parsifal,  demonstrating 
thus  significantly  the  perennial  freshness  of  the 
Grail  theme. 

A  comparatively  superficial  analysis  will 
usually  convince  the  Grail  student  that  the 
Galahad  poems  must  have  been  suggested  by 

Percivale  in  English  and  French,  Perceval  in  Spanish  or  Por- 
tugese. The  Kundry  of  Wagner  is  Kondrie  la  Sorciere  in 
Wolfram's  epic,  Wagner's  Klingsor  is  Klinschor  in  the  older 
poem. 

25 


those  of  Parsifal,  though  they  may  have  been 
written  earlier  than  Wolfram's  monumental 
epic.  If  one  were  seeking  to  define  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  two  cycles,  that  of  Galahad  would 
necessarily  be  described  as  theological,  and  that 
of  Parsifal  as  intensely  mystical.  As  mysticism 
disappears  instantly  at  the  approach  of  theol- 
ogy, this  would  settle  the  question  from  the 
standpoint  of  a  student  of  ethics,  but  there  are 
innumerable  charming  details  in  the  two  cycles, 
which  invariably  rise  in  the  Galahad  stories  as 
the  shadows  of  those  more  clearly  designated 
in  the  spacious  outlines  of  the  Parsifal  events. 
The  Parsifal  epos  is  dominated  by  a  larger 
and  more  noble  ideal  than  that  which  reigns 
in  its  attendant  cycle.  It  is  from  Wolfram 
that  we  inherit  that  brave  painting  of  the  Grail 
castle  in  Southern  Spain,  which  may  have  been 
originally  the  poetic  conception  of  a  crusad- 
ing minstrel.  The  gray  chateau  stands  alone, 
guarded  by  its  band  of  chosen  knights,  but 

26 


of 

though  they  are  devoted  to  its  service  for  the 
time  being/  they  are  not  monks,  they  have  not 
given  up  the  world.  They  serve  the  Grail,  and 
thereby  gain  wisdom  and  prowess  impossible  of 
attainment  in  any  other  service.  But  when  a 
great  deed  is  to  be  accomplished  beyond  the 
powers  of  ordinary  men,  when  a  maiden  is  to 
be  saved,  a  kingdom  preserved,  the  Grail  to 
be  won,  then  the  cup  or  the  jewel  is  unveiled, 
the  name  of  the  chosen  one  is  written  in  fire 
about  the  holy  surface,  and  the  selected  knight 
goes  forth  to  carry  the  fragrance  of  the  Grail 
to  mankind  in  the  noble  deed  he  performs  for 
his  kin  or  his  race. 

Within  the  castle  the  treasure  is  watched 
and  guarded  by  maidens  who  are  chastely  de- 
voted to  the  Grail  while  they  remain  in  the  holy 
Presence,  but  when  a  wife  is  needed  in  the  world, 
whose  mission  is  beyond  the  powers  of  an  ordi- 
nary woman,  when  a  mother  must  bear  a  son 
who  is  destined  to  be  a  Grail-bearer  or  seeker, 

27 


then  once  more  the  chosen  one  goes  forth,  that 
the  glory  of  the  Grail  may  be  visible  again  in 
the  radiance  of  her  beautiful  life. 

The  seeker  of  the  Grail  may  ride  far  and 
wide  in  search  of  the  castle,  he  may  stand  be- 
side it,  he  may  touch  its  massive  walls  with  the 
sleeve  of  his  doublet,  but  he  will  not  see  it  unless 
it  is  his  hour  to  do  so,  unless  Heaven  draws  the 
veil  from  his  eyes  that  he  may  perceive  the 
truth! 

Throughout  the  great  poem  of  Wolfram  the 
note  is  one  of  attainment  through  service,  and 
of  the  joy  to  be  found  in  the  life  of  really 
loving  activity.  There  is  no  word  of  stern  duty 
and  ascetic  deprivation.  It  is  the  voice  of  the 
primitive  Church  we  seem  to  hear,  another  ver- 
sion of  Saint  Francis's  beautiful  "  Canticle  of 
the  Sun." 

In  the  Galahad  poems  a  much  stricter  theol- 
ogy is  evident.  The  careful  glorification  of 
the  Church,  and  dedication  of  all  service  to  its 

28 


of 

preservation  is  insisted  upon.  Galahad  is  born 
a  consecrated  priest,  so  to  speak,  dedicated  to  the 
achievement  of  the  Grail,  for  the  glory  of  "  Holy 
Church."  He  needs  no  purification  or  prepara- 
tion for  his  great  deed,  since  his  birth  fitted  him 
for  its  consummation.  He  is  reared  in  a  nunnery, 
as  his  mother  died  at  his  birth;  his  father, 
Launcelot,  did  not  know  of  his  existence,  and 
he  was  therefore  consigned  to  the  care  of  the 
holy  women.  The  hero  is  ever  the  celibate 
priest,  and  when  at  last  he  achieves  the  Grail 
in  the  city  of  Sarras,  his  prayer  is  that  he  may 
die  at  once,  since  in  his  visions  he  has  learned 
that  the  angels  feel  such  joy  as  mortals  can 
never  know  until  they  mingle  with  the  angelic 
host! 

It  is  significant  that  wherever  the  Grail  is 
described  in  the  Galahad  poems  it  is  presented 
to  the  happy  devotee  with  the  ceremony  of  the 
holy  communion  of  the  Catholic  Church.  It 
is  always  accompanied  by  the  consecrated  wafer, 

29 


and  Joseph  of  Arimathea  descends  from  heaven 
in  the  robes  of  a  bishop  to  preside  at  the  altar 
upon  which  the  Grail  is  displayed  to  the  eyes 
of  its  worshippers. 

One  wearies  sometimes  of  the  flawless  per- 
fection of  Galahad,  who  is  never  even  tempted 
to  sin,  and  has  therefore  nothing  to  overcome. 
But  the  poet  who  writes  the  story  is  ever  more 
or  less  of  an  artist,  so  the  effort  toward  attain- 
ment, which  is  always  so  necessary  in  faulty 
human  nature,  is  represented  by  the  struggle 
and  frequent  failure  of  knightly  Launcelot, 
and  by  brave  Bors  and  noble  Percival,  who 
always  accompany  Galahad  in  his  quest. 

There  is  refreshment  in  the  comparative 
failures  of  Bors,  and  the  reader  never  forgets 
the  moment  in  the  narrative  when  he  lies 
wounded  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  well.  He 
has  resisted  temptation,  he  has  fought  nobly 
for  his  ideal,  but  he  is  nevertheless  alone  and 
deserted,  seeing  but  a  single  star  far  above 

30 


of 

him  in  the  blue  heaven.  Suddenly  a  dove  flies 
down  to  him,  bearing  a  censer  in  its  bill;  a 
strange  and  wonderful  fragrance  fills  his  nos- 
trils, he  falls  asleep  with  the  voices  of  angels 
in  his  ears,  and  wakens  to  safety  and  healing. 
The  Grail  has  found  him  in  his  despair,  and 
has  saved  him ! 

Launcelot  cannot  achieve  the  Grail  because 
of  his  guilty  love  for  Guinevere,  but  he  strug- 
gles with  his  sin,  and  so  again  and  again  is 
brought  almost  into  the  Holy  Presence.  He 
hears  the  chanting  of  the  angels,  he  detects 
that  wondrous  fragrance  which  invariably  ac- 
companies the  appearance  of  the  Grail.  Upon 
one  occasion  he  falls  prone  across  the  threshold 
of  the  chamber  where  the  mystery  is  concealed, 
and  though  his  body  cannot  enter,  all  the  glory 
of  the  experience  is  revealed  to  his  exalted 
spirit,  so  that  he  complains  when  his  friends 
awake  him  from  his  swoon.  We  rejoice  with 


31 


him  at  last  when  his  soul  is  purified  from  all 
stain,  and  he  is  at  peace. 

Even  the  colouring  of  the  Grail  picture  in 
its  Galahad  setting  is  essentially  churchly.  The 
Grail  itself,  and  the  vestments  of  Galahad  are 
always  scarlet  and  white,  theologically  the 
colours  of  the  Passion  and  purification  of  sin, 
and  of  those  who  are  washed  white  as  snow 
from  its  stain. 

In  the  Parsifal  cycle  the  Grail  colour  is  a 
soft  luminous  green,  which  is  not  only  that  of 
the  Grail  stone  itself,  but  of  the  velvet  robe 
of  Repanse  de  Schoie,  who  bears  it  in  the  pro- 
cession, when  it  is  uncovered  before  the  sick 
king.  The  selection  of  this  colour  was  un- 
doubtedly not  an  accident,  whether  it  was  a 
tradition  to  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach,  or  orig- 
inal with  him.  He  has  shown  himself  so  steeped 
in  mystical  lore,  that  he  would  naturally  be 
versed  in  the  mystic  significance  of  colours. 
From  this  point  of  view,  green  represents  har- 

32 


of 

mony,  life,  such  renaissance  as  would  only  be 
possible  to  the  soul  through  the  ministry  of  the 
Grail.  It  is  rather  significant  in  this  connec- 
tion that  with  Rossetti,  and  among  our  modern 
impressionist  artists,  green  is  regarded  as  the 
colour  best  fitted  for  the  expression  of  musical 
ideas. 

The  suggestion  that  the  theological  bias  of 
the  Galahad  poems  would  indicate  a  later  au- 
thorship than  that  of  Wolfram's  "  Parzival  "  is 
strengthened  by  the  fact  that  all  were  written 
in  the  moment  of  the  first  great  struggle  of 
the  Church  with  heresy.  The  scourging  of  the 
Albigensians  occurred  in  the  first  ten  years  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  and  the  heresy  centred 
in  the  luxurious  and  cultured  court  of  Ray- 
mond of  Toulouse.  Walter  Map,  to  whom  the 
great  Galahad  poems  are  attributed,  was  a 
broad-minded  churchman,  who  had  taken  merely 
the  lower  orders.  He  was  called  to  the  infected 


33 


provinces  to  give  his  advice  as  to  the  punish- 
ment of  the  heretics. 

At  the  gay  court  of  Toulouse  he  came  in 
contact  with  the  finest  culture  of  the  day,  and 
must  have  heard  that  famous  minstrel,  Kyot, 
of  whom  Wolfram  speaks  in  his  great  epic.  The 
German  singer  disclaims  all  credit  for  inven- 
tion in  his  narrative.  He  asserts  that  he  sings 
his  song  as  he  remembers  to  have  heard  Kyot 
sing  it  at  the  court  of  Toulouse. 

We  know  nothing  of  Kyot  beyond  his  men- 
tion by  Wolfram,  and  critics  usually  decide, 
therefore,  that  the  knightly  poet  has  seen  fit 
to  invent  his  predecessor's  performance  to  ex- 
cuse his  own.  But  nothing  of  the  sort  is  indi- 
cated by  Wolfram's  words.  He  says  that  his 
contemporary,  Chrestien  de  Troyes,  has  also 
borrowed  from  Kyot,  but  has  not  acknowledged  I 
it,  and  has  not  preserved  the  spiritual  message ' 
of  his  master.  The  poet  adds  that  he  himself 
is  more  anxious  to  express  this  than  anything 

%          34 


of  $«tr*ff»l€c 

else,  in  which  he  is  undoubtedly  sincere.  His 
poem  is  penetrated  by  profound  religious  and 
mystical  feeling,  which,  however,  would  hardly 
have  been  considered  orthodox  in  its  own  day. 

On  the  contrary  it  bristles  with  the  salient 
points  of  the  Albigensian  heresy,  which  did 
not  antagonize  the  Church,  but  demanded  a 
return  to  the  primitive  simplicity  and  brother-  ./ 
hood  of  the  early  times,  and  taught  a  mystic 
asceticism  and  purity,  in  strong  contrast  with 
the  existing  customs  of  the  clergy.  A  little 
later  the  real  influence  of  the  heresy  purified 
the  Church  through  the  beautiful  teachings  of 
Saint  Francis.  When  one  remembers  that  the 
persecution  of  the  Church  included  the  litera- 
ture of  the  sect  as  well  as  its  members,  it  would 
not  appear  singular  if  the  manuscripts  of  Kyot's 
work  were  all  burned.  One  understands  then 
why  Chrestien  de  Troyes  failed  to  transmit  the 
spiritual  message  of  his  master,  and  why  Wolf- 
ram blames  him  for  this  significant  omission. 

35 


In  the  same  way  it  is  evident  that  if  the  good 
churchman,  Walter  Map,  had  been  charmed  with 
the  Grail  song  of  Parzival,  penetrated  as  it  was 
by  the  fascinating  heresy  which  the  Church 
must  extinguish,  his  first  impulse  would  be  to 
reenforce  the  lovely  story  with  an  orthodoxy 
which  would  render  it  safe  for  all  hearers. 

Among  the  many  points  which  may  be  men- 
tioned as  indicating  the  relationship  of  the  two 
cycles,  and  the  later  authorship  of  the  Galahad 
poems,  are  especially  the  incidents  of  the  Grail 
castle,  the  wounded  king,  and  Percival's  con- 
nection with  Galahad's  adventures. 

In  the  Galahad  cycle  the  castle  is  always 
mentioned  as  if  its  location  and  history  were 
well  known,  and  need  not  be  described.  King 
Pelles  is  called  King  of  the  Grail,  and  his 
daughter,  who  is  a  Grail  maiden,  must  be  the 
mother  of  Galahad,  as  if  this  fact  consecrated 
her  to  such  a  service,  but  no  details  are  given 
as  to  these  interesting  mysteries. 

36 


of 

In  the  Parzival  epic  the  healing  of  Amfortas 
is  the  central  event  of  the  hero's  mission.  The 
plot  thickens  about  the  spiritual  development  to 
which  Parzival  must  attain  before  he  can  ask 
the  question,  or  heal  the  king,  and  the  interest 
of  the  story  hinges  upon  his  two  visits  to  the 
Grail  castle. 

Galahad  also  heals  a  sick  king.  In  some  of 
the  versions  even  the  odd  and  unexplainable 
old  play  upon  words  in  the  use  of  Pescheur, 
which  means  both  sinner  and  fisher,  is  preserved. 
But  Galahad  heals  the  king  as  a  mere  incident 
of  his  journey  to  Sarras.  There  is  no  signifi- 
cance in  the  action,  and  it  would  hardly  find 
a  place  in  the  new  drama,  if  the  author's  mind 
had  not  retained  a  similar  incident  more  elo- 
quently described.  If  it  were  dropped  from  the 
recital  of  Galahad's  deeds,  it  would  never  be 
missed. 

One  wonders  also  why  Galahad  cannot  achieve 
the  Grail  alone,  but  is  always  accompanied  by 

37 


Percival.  Bors  seems  to  be  added  to  complete 
the  symbolism  of  a  trinity,  but  Percival,  —  he 
is  the  same  as  Parsifal,  Parzival,  the  Perche- 
vaus  of  Chrestien  de  Troyes  —  he  is  the  hero 
of  the  older  cycle !  Surely  the  singer  of 
Galahad's  knightly  prowess  must  first  have 
heard  the  tale  of  Parzival's  achievement, 
and  could  not  conscientiously  drop  him 
from  intimate  connection  with  the  Grail 
mysteries ! 

/  One  turns  with  eagerness  from  all  these 
questionings  to  the  charming  old  epic  of  Wolf- 
ram von  Eschenbach,  which  was  the  inspiration 
of  Wagner's  great  music-drama  of  Parsifal, 
and  which  is  doubly  of  interest  to  us  because 
it  is  a  survival  of  that  wonderful  renaissance 
of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  which 
has  spoken  to  us  in  the  "  Divine  Comedy  "  of 
Dante,  and  in  the  spiritual  awakening  which 
Saint  Francis  brought  the  world.  In  this  way 
the  epic  of  Wolfram  is  distinct  from  the  group 

38 


of 

of  great  poems  dedicated  to  the  deeds  of  chiv- 
alry, like  the  Song  of  Roland,  or  the  Siegfried 
epics.  From  beginning  to  end  it  is  dominated 
by  a  spiritual  conception  of  the  soul  in  its  rela- 
tions to  life  which  colours  all  its  chivalric 
imagery,  and  frees  it  to  a  marked  degree  from 
the  atmosphere  of  medievalism.  It  is  evident 
that  the  author  had  pondered  deeply  many 
questions  relating  to  ideal  living,  and  had 
reached  some  conclusions  to  which  the  majority 
of  mankind  has  not  yet  attained,  though  the 
number  of  the  enlightened  is  rapidly  increas- 
ing in  our  own  day. 

It  was  this  element  in  the  old  poem  which 
rendered  it  so  fascinating  to  Richard  Wagner, 
for  it  would  be  a  sad  mistake  to  suppose  that 
the  most  gifted  musical  composer  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  was  absorbed  merely  in  the  dra- 
matic possibilities  of  the  themes  which  occupied 
him.  His  questionings  upon  human  life  always 
centred  in  certain  social  changes,  which  would 

39 


enable  the  individual  to  conquer  his  destiny 
without  that  tremendous  conflict  which  he  him- 
self had  encountered,  and  which  bade  fair  to 
leave  him  broken  and  defeated  upon  the  field 
of  battle. 

For  years  he  had  felt  dimly  that  the  soul 
must  win  its  way  and  attain  serenity  through 
overcoming.  So  he  busied  himself  with  plans 
and  plots,  representing  the  spiritual  victory 
of  Christ  and  Buddha,  in  which  the  victory 
was  ever  emphasized,  and  these  he  never  carried 
to  completion.  He  could  not  write  the  victor 
drama,  or  hear  the  victor  music,  until  he  had 
won  at  least  a  certain  mastery  over  his  own 
destiny.  When  that  moment  came,  he  turned 
again  to  the  epic  of  Parzival  with  a  fresh  and 
illuminating  comprehension  of  the  old  minstrel's 
conception  of  victory. 

"  To  conquer  through  love !  That  is  the 
way ! "  cries  Wolfram,  and  long  before  Scho- 
penhauer lived  to  paint  the  exterior  world  as 

40 


of  JJarsifale 

merely  Will  and  Idea,  the  knightly  singer  had 
taught  his  hearers  that  to  conquer  for  others 
is  the  only  victory  which  brings  real  happiness 
to  the  inhabitants  of  this  whirling  planet  of 
earth ! 

Meanwhile,  it  would  be  exceedingly  unjust 
to  imagine  for  a  moment  that  Wolfram  von 
Eschenbach  was  morbid  and  pessimistic.  He 
was,  on  the  contrary,  sane,  and  heartily  in  sym- 
pathy with  all  the  life  of  his  day,  but  he  be- 
lieved in  immortality,  and  looked  upon  life 
from  the  point  of  view  of  eternal  existence, 
not  that  of  the  limited  span  visible  to  our 
mortal  eyes.  He  was  also  a  thinker  who  re- 
mained an  earnest  and  spiritual  Christian,  but 
had  freed  himself  quite  positively  from  the 
jurisdiction  of  the  Church  —  and  we  must  re- 
member that  in  Wolfram's  day  there  was  but 
one  Church. 

It  is  evident  that  to  him,  winning  the  Grail 
meant  bringing  God  into  life,  and  the  victory 

41 


of  Parzival  could  only  be  attained  through  a 
process  of  evolution  intensely  human.  In  other 
words,  the  problem  of  Wolfram's  epic  is  iden- 
tical with  that  of  Goethe's  "Faust,"  but  the  / 
older  poet  has  approached  his  undertaking 
with  a  simple  faith  and  a  belief  in  love  as  the 
most  powerful  solvent  of  earthly  difficulties, 
which  renders  his  pages  for  ever  interesting, 
and  brings  them  always  within  the  comprehen- 
sion of  the  mind  that  cannot  attain  the  heights 
of  philosophy. 

Wolfram  was  at  heart  a  sincere  democrat, 
and,  though  he  gave  his  hero  a  royal  father,  he 
did  not  allow  him  to  be  reared  at  court.  Gah- 
muhret  was  married  first  to  a  Saracen  princess 
named  Belakane,  and  later  was  united  to  Herze- 
leide,  the  mother  of  Parzival,  who  had  served  in 
the  Grail  castle,  and  was  called  forth  to  become 
the  mother  of  the  one  whose  destiny  it  was  to 
heal  Amfortas,  and  restore  the  sweet  and  perfect 
atmosphere  of  the  Grail  environment. 

42 


When  the  child  was  born,  his  father  had  been 
slain  in  battle,  and  the  wise  mother,  who  knew 
the  destiny  of  her  son,  felt  that  a  simple  wood- 
land life  would  prepare  him  better  for  his  future 
career  than  the  etiquette  of  a  courtly  circle. 
There  was  another  motive  stirring  in  her  heart 
also.  She  had  lost  all  she  loved  best  in  this 
world,  and  she  would  have  preferred  to  keep 
her  child  in  her  own  loving  arms,  rather  than 
resign  him  to  the  most  glorious  career,  which 
would  separate  him  from  her.  So  she  placed 
him  where  only  the  will  of  God  could  call  him 
to  fame  and  great  deeds. 

She  left  the  court,  and  sought  a  forest  retreat, 
with  only  a  few  devoted  followers.  She  forbade 
her  people  to  mention  to  the  boy  his  father's 
name  or  his  own  royal  lineage.  He  was  never 
to  hear  the  words  knighthood,  chivalry,  Arthur's 
court,  and  thus  nothing  less  positive  than  the 
law  of  destiny  could  bring  him  the  career 
of  glory  and  peril  which  his  birth  seemed  to 

43 


necessitate,  from  which  the  tender  heart  of  even 
this  wise  mother  must  shrink. 

So  the  child  grew  up  in  the  forest,  learning 
lessons  from  the  birds,  making  friends  of  all 
the  wild  things  about  him,  and  listening  to  the 
wise  words  of  his  mother.  One  of  the  most 
beautiful  incidents  of  the  forest  life,  which 
Wagner  has  transformed  very  dramatically 
into  Parsifal's  adventure  with  the  swans,  is  that 
of  shooting  the  bird.  The  little  boy  had  made 
himself  a  bow  and  arrows,  and  had  become 
quite  expert  in  their  use.  He  loved  the  sing- 
ing of  the  birds,  and  knew  nothing  of  death. 
One  day  he  took  aim  at  a  pretty  songster,  and 
to  his  horror  it  fell  helpless  at  his  feet,  and 
could  no  longer  sing.  He  lifted  it,  examined 
it  with  anguish  in  his  childish  heart,  but  alas! 
he  could  not  restore  it  to  music  and  movement. 
The  little  creature  lay  limp  and  silent  in  his 
hand,  and  he  learned  the  pathos  and  mystery 
of  death. 

44 


of  Da  raff  ale 

After  that  he  spent  many  hours  under  the 
shadowy  branches  of  the  trees,  listening  to  the 
chorus  of  the  birds,  until  his  little  heart  swelled 
almost  to  bursting  with  that  deep  poet's  pain 
which  always  means  the  tragedy  of  human  life 
to  him  who  feels  it,  because  it  touches  the  in- 
expressible. So  he  wept  with  this  strange  suf- 
fering, —  as  children  often  do,  adds  the  old 
poet  wisely,  —  and  ran  to  his  mother  for  com- 
fort. She  forgot  her  divine  wisdom  in  the  pity 
of  motherhood,  and  thought  only  of  consoling 
her  child,  so  she  said: 

"  I  will  snare  the  birds  and  kill  them  if  they 
make  you  weep." 

She  gave  orders  for  a  crusade  against  the 
birds  by  her  woodland  helpers,  and  many  were 
slain.  But  some  escaped  and  continued  to  sing 
in  the  tree-tops.  The  little  boy  suffered  over 
the  slaughter  of  his  friends,  and  said  to  his 
mother : 


45 


"  Why  do  you  kill  the  pretty  birds  when 
they  have  done  no  harm?  " 

Then  Herzeleide  was  recalled  to  her  nobler 
self,  and  exclaimed: 

"  Alas,  how  have  I  forgotten  the  commands 
of  God,  the  great  and  supreme  God !  " 

The  boy  looked  at  her  earnestly.  "  Mother," 
he  asked,  "  what  is  that?  What  is  God?  " 

His  words  showed  the  mother  that  he  was 
ready  to  understand  some  of  the  mysteries  of 
life,  and  that  she  could  reveal  to  him  a  little 
of  the  wisdom  she  had  learned  in  the  Grail 
castle  during  her  long  service  there.  So  she 
began  to  teach  him  of  God. 

"  My  son,"  she  said,  "  God  is  everything 
that  is  bright  and  beautiful.  Seek  him  in  the 
sunshine,  and  in  all  that  is  radiant,  lovely,  and 
full  of  light.  But  avoid  the  darkness,  for  that 
is  evil.  That  is  like  hatred  and  vice,  but  God 
is  like  love." 

The  child  pondered  deeply  over  this  wonder- 

46 


of 

ful  message,  and,  with  the  eager  fancy  of  child- 
hood, dreamed  constantly  of  its  realization. 
One  day,  as  he  was  in  the  forest,  he  saw  coming 
toward  him,  down  the  broad  aisles  of  woodland 
pathways,  a  group  of  knights,  brilliant  in  all 
the  panoply  of  golden  armour  and  waving 
plume.  The  boy  stood  transfixed  before  them, 
so  that  they  were  obliged  to  pause  in  their  on- 
ward passage,  as  they  did  not  wish  to  ride  him 
down,  though  they  were  irritated  at  his  inter- 
ruption of  their  quest. 

"  Oh,  help  me,  God ;  you  are  so  rich  in  help  !  " 
cried  the  boy. 

The  leader  of  the  group,  the  most  brilliantly 
accoutred  among  them,  answered  the  boy,  but 
he  would  not  listen. 

"  Tell  me  who  you  are !  "  he  insisted,  kneeling. 
"  You  are  God ;  I  know  you  are  God !  " 

"  I  am  not  God,"  responded  the  knight,  rev- 
erently, "  but  I  try  to  obey  his  commands.  I 
am  a  knight,  and,  if  you  would  use  your  eyes," 

47 


he  added,  "  you  would  see  that  there  are  four 
of  us!" 

"  Knights !  Knights !  "  cried  the  boy,  eagerly. 
"What  does  that  mean?" 

Then  the  gentleman  explained  to  the  hand- 
some youth  before  him,  who  seemed  to  be  so 
simple,  the  glories  of  knighthood,  chivalry,  and 
Arthur's  court.  The  boy  wondered  at  his  ar- 
mour, with  its  innumerable  rings,  and,  drawing 
out  his  sword  from  its  scabbard,  the  cavalier 
displayed  its  flashing  surface,  and  illustrated  its 
use. 

Then,  in  conclusion,  he  frankly  admired  the 
beauty  of  the  boy,  and  said: 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  to  Arthur's  court  ? 
You  could  win  knighthood  and  honour  there. 
I  wish  I  had  your  fine  figure  and  your  handsome 
face!" 

The  youth  had  never  heard  such  words  as 
this,  and  his  eyes  flashed.  His  father  and  all 
his  uncles  had  fallen  in  the  chivalrous  combats 

48 


of  the  noble  king,  and  the  words  roused  echoes 
in  his  brain  that  could  not  be  stilled.  He  turned 
hastily  and  sought  his  mother. 

"  Give  me  arms  and  a  horse !  "  he  cried.  "  I 
also  will  ride  to  Arthur's  court  and  win  knight- 
hood!" 

Then  the  poor  mother  knew  —  as  other  moth- 
ers have  known  —  that  her  hour  had  come,  that 
God's  plan  for  her  child  must  be  fulfilled  in 
spite  of  her  heart-break.  Ah,  if  she  could  but 
have  rejoiced  in  the  plan,  her  heart  need  not 
have  broken ! 

Just  here  it  may  be  proper  to  say  a  word 
of  the  curious  and  charming  symbolism  which 
pervades  Wolfram's  poem,  and  adds  constantly 
to  its  suggestion.  The  events  which  form  the 
web  and  woof  of  the  story  are  natural  and  life- 
like to  an  unusual  degree,  but  frequently  they 
serve  the  double  purpose  of  carrying  on  the 
plot,  and  increasing  its  spiritual  meaning. 

The  name  of  Parzival's  mother  —  Herzeleide 

49 


—  means  Sorrow  of  the  Heart,  and,  as  the 
hero  is  a  type  who  stands  for  mankind  in  its 
progress,  we  are  reminded  that  this  same  mother, 
Sorrow  of  the  Heart,  has  borne  the  saviours, 
prophets,  and  poets  of  the  world  from  time  im- 
memorial. We  are  wrong  in  shrinking  from 
Sorrow,  for  she  frequently  brings  us  our  most 
divine  moments. 

During  all  his  life  in  the  forest,  Parzival 
does  not  know  his  name.  He  is,  moreover,  fre- 
quently spoken  of  as  a  "  fool,"  and,  if  the  poet 
were  to  explain  his  meaning  in  this,  he  would 
doubtless  tell  us  that  such  a  fool  as  Parzival 
is  one  who  is  enlightened  by  the  spirit  and  not 
the  intellect,  who  has  been  deprived  of  the  ordi- 
nary mental  culture,  which  we  term  education. 
But  such  a  fool  is  frequently  the  wisest  of  men, 
and  obeys  the  monition  of  the  inner  voice  far 
more  perfectly  than  those  who  have  been  granted 
broader  intellectual  advantages.  Parzival  is 
never  painted  as  lacking  in  mental  strength, 

50 


of 

but  as  having  been  left  without  worldly  advan- 
tages through  which  he  might  have  acquired 
conventional  learning. 

From  the  moment  when  he  met  the  knights 
in  the  forest,  every  incident  in  the  boy's  life 
became  significant  and  suggestive.  His  mother 
prepared  his  outfit  so  that  there  might  be  still 
another  necessity  that  the  will  of  God  should 
manifest  itself  in  the  shaping  of  his  future. 
She  knew  well  that  the  world  is  prone  to  judge 
its  saviour  and  prophet  by  his  dress  and  bearing 
rather  than  his  spiritual  gifts,  and  she  deter- 
mined to  render  Parzival's  recognition  as  difficult 
as  possible.  So  she  fashioned  him  a  doublet 
from  a  meal-sack,  in  which  she  cut  three  holes, 
one  for  his  head  and  two  for  his  arms.  His  leg- 
gings were  formed  from  the  skin  of  a  freshly 
killed  calf,  and  he  bestrode  a  steed,  furnished 
by  his  mother's  stables,  the  like  of  which  was 
never  known  till  Don  Quixote  later  rode  to  con- 
quest on  the  famous  Rosinante,  The  boy's  only 

51 


weapon  was  a  javelin,  which  he  had  learned  to 
hurl  with  unfailing  aim  in  his  woodland  prac- 
tice. He  was  so  eager  to  set  forth  that  he  could 
hardly  wait  for  his  mother's  final  instructions, 
and  he  forgot  to  kiss  her  good-bye. 

She  warned  him,  however,  that  he  must  always 
treat  with  respect  those  whom  he  saw  with  white 
hair,  and  she  told  him  also  that,  if  he  saw  a 
pretty  woman,  he  must  kiss  her  and  take  away 
her  rings  and  jewels.  This  last  enigmatic  man- 
date she  no  doubt  felt  would  preserve  her  son 
',  from  the  temptations  of  wily  women,  and  it 
surely  was  the  charm  of  a  seeress  for  the  un- 
schooled boy. 

His  mother  died  as  he  left  her,  but  he  was 
so  eager  for  the  new  life  that  he  did  not  look 
back,  and  was  not  aware  that  she  had  fallen. 
His  first  encounter  was  with  Jeschute,  a  young 
and  beautiful  woman,  his  meeting  with  whom 
no  doubt  gave  Wagner  a  hint  for  his  wonderful 
Kundry  scene  in  the  second  act  of  the  drama. 

52 


of 

Parzival  followed  his  mother's  instructions  to 
the  letter,  however,  and  came  away  scatheless. 
Then  he  met  his  cousin,  Sigune,  and  it  may  be 
said  here  that  Sigune  represents  in  the  poem  the 
awakened  conscience  or  intelligence  within  our- 
selves, which  takes  note  of  our  mistakes  and 
illuminates  our  progress. 

She  met  the  boy  after  the  excitement  of  his 
first  adventure,  and  immediately  asked  his  name. 

"  I  don't  know  my  name,"  he  replied.  "  In 
the  forest  they  always  called  me  darling  and 
dear  boy.  Have  I  another  name?" 

"  You  have  the  most  beautiful  name  in  the 
world !  "  replied  Sigune.  "  And  you  must  never 
forget  it.  Your  name  is  Parzival,  —  perce 
vallee,  —  that  means  to  pierce  the  valley,  and 
that  means  that  love  pierces  to  truth  as  surely 
as  it  ploughs  furrows  in  your  mother's  cheek !  " 

Then  she  told  him  of  his  lineage,  of  his 
father's  honour  and  his  mother's  station.  She 
explained  that  she  was  his  cousin,  and  told  him 

53 


enough  of  her  sorrows  to  elicit  his  warm  sym- 
pathy. After  this  he  went  on  to  meet  Ither 
the  Red  Knight,  and  bear  his  challenge  to 
Arthur's  court. 

It  is  interesting  to  recall  the  manner  in  which 
Galahad  entered  the  court  of  the  chivalric  king, 
at  the  time  of  his  introduction  to  the  Round 
Table,  in  comparison  with  the  rude  and  almost 
shocking  entrance  of  Parzival. 

Galahad  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  great 
banquet-hall  guided  by  Merlin,  who  is  sometimes 
represented  as  invisible;  the  old  enchanter  is 
always  the  guardian  of  the  young  knight. 

There  was  one  seat  at  the  round  table  called 
the  "  siege  perilous,"  and  on  the  preceding  day 
it  had  been  observed  that  a  new  writing  was  visi- 
ble about  its  margin,  which  indicated  that  the 
time  had  arrived  when  the  greatest  knight  of  the 
world  should  occupy  this  chair.  Launcelot 
threw  a  silken  cover  over  it,  and  all  waited  for 
the  coming  event.  It  was  believed  that  any  one 

54 


of 

bold  enough  to  sit  in  this  sacred  place  would 
pay  the  penalty  of  death  for  his  temerity. 

When  Galahad  entered  the  hall,  he  was  robed 
in  scarlet  velvet  and  princely  ermine.  He 
walked  to  the  fatal  chair,  removed  the  cover, 
and  seated  himself,  while  all  wondered  with 
suspended  breath  to  see  what  would  happen. 
But  Galahad  sat  in  safety  because  he  was  born 
for  this  gilded  throne-like  support,  and  the 
recognition  of  the  moment,  so  the  assembled 
knights  gazed  at  him  with  astonishment  and 
reverence. 

Parzival,  on  the  contrary,  rode  into  the  hall 
upon  his  sorry  steed,  and  flung  the  Red  Knight's 
gauntlet  at  Arthur's  feet.  The  youth  was  cer- 
tainly noble  of  face  and  figure,  but  so  strangely 
costumed  that  the  company  of  knights  and  ladies 
broke  into  half -suppressed  laughter  at  his  ap- 
pearance. He  delivered  the  challenge  he  had 
brought,  and  then  kneeling  before  the  king, 
offered  his  prayer  for  the  honour  of  knighthood. 

55 


Arthur  was  touched  by  the  beauty  of  the 
youth,  and  his  princely  manner,  and,  though 
he  knew  nothing  of  him,  he  would  have  granted 
his  request.  But  there  was  an  ominous  titter- 
ing among  the  courtiers,  and  Kay,  the  sene- 
schal, was  evidently  displeased.  So  the  king 
hesitated,  and  at  last  consented  to  the  wishes  of 
the  strange  youth  if  he  would  wait  until  "  to- 
morrow." 

The  fiery  boy  sprang  to  his  feet,  feeling  the 
insult  of  the  insolent  laughter  about  him.  De- 
claring he  would  take  horse  and  armour  from 
the  bold  warrior  whose  challenge  he  had  brought, 
he  rode  haughtily  away.  The  crowd  pressed  to 
the  windows  to  watch  his  departure,  bidding 
Iwanet,  the  page,  hasten  after  him  and  bring 
news  of  his  defeat.  They  did  not  restrain  their 
scorn  because  Kunneware  laughed,  though  it 
had  been  prophesied  that  she  should  never  smile 
till  her  eyes  rested  on  him  who  should  become 
the  greatest  knight  of  the  world,  and  her 

56 


of  Dar0ffale 

brother  Antanor  spoke,  though  the  same  proph- 
ecy pronounced  him  dumb  until  the  moment 
when  his  sister  could  smile. 

Parzival  rode  away  absorbed  in  the  vision 
of  a  conquest  which  should  render  him  worthy 
of  the  honour  he  craved,  and,  strange  to  say, 
Ither  the  Red  Knight  fell  before  the  spear- 
thrust  of  an  unknown  and  unarmed  boy.  And 
it  was  not  Parzival's  destiny  that  overcame  him, 
but  the  eager  courage  of  insulted  and  irritated 
youth.  The  feeling  of  the  Grail  winner  was 
not  that  of  a  saint  when  he  overcame  Ither,  and 
we  love  him  better  because  we  are  made  to  real- 
ize that  he  must  purify  the  fierce  spirit  within 
himself  before  he  could  bear  the  sorrows  of  the 
world,  or  gain  its  victories. 

Iwanet  followed  the  footsteps  of  the  hero, 
with  the  intention  of  witnessing  his  discomfi- 
ture, but  he  reached  the  scene  of  conflict  just 
in  time  to  save  the  rich  armour  of  Ither  from 
destruction.  The  inexperienced  boy  who  had 

57 


conquered  the  bold  knight  had  never  unfastened 
greaves  or  cuirass,  and  he  was  recklessly  tearing 
them  from  the  body  of  his  fallen  adversary 
when  Iwanet  reached  him.  The  page  was  duly 
shocked  at  his  ignorance,  but  willing  to  lend 
his  skill,  so  presently  he  prepared  to  enclose  the 
lithe  limbs  of  the  youth  before  him  in  knightly 
gear.  He  was  naturally  disgusted  with  Parzi- 
val's  primitive  attire,  however,  and,  as  he  en- 
deavoured to  fit  the  greaves  over  the  coarse 
calfskin  leggings  the  conqueror  wore,  he  mut- 
tered disdainfully: 

"  It  is  impossible  to  adjust  armour  upon  such 
garments !  The  gentlemen  I  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  arming  wear  silken  hose  beneath  their 
greaves." 

Whereupon  the  rustic  Parzival  gave  courtly 
bred  Iwanet  a  lesson  in  true  courtesy  which  he 
probably  did  not  soon  forget. 

"  Those    leggings,"    he    responded,    sternly, 


58 


of 

"  were  my  mother's  gift,  and  I  shall  wear  them 
till  they  drop  off." 

It  would  be  most  interesting  to  follow  Parzi- 
val  through  all  the  adventures  which  roused 
within  him  at  last  that  spirit  of  love  which  alone 
can  save  the  soul  of  man.  He  made  mistakes, 
but  he  always  profited  by  them,  and  he  learned 
love  through  loving. 

He  spent  many  days  with  old  Gurnemanz, 
familiarizing  himself  with  the  courtly  etiquette 
of  which  he  had  known  nothing  in  his  forest  life. 
Gurnemanz  admired  the  youth,  and  would  have 
liked  to  marry  him  to  his  daughter,  but  Parzi- 
val  knew  that  she  was  not  the  one  he  loved,  and 
so  said  farewell  to  the  good  old  man.  He 
learned  many  excellent  truths  from  Gurnemanz, 
but  he  unfortunately  retained  one  lesson  which 
he  should  have  forgotten.  Gurnemanz  said  to 
him: 

"  Parzival,  remember  that  you  are  but  a  fool, 
an  uncultured  boy,  unaccustomed  to  the  ways 

59 


of  the  world  and  of  polite  society.  So  be  care- 
ful at  least  not  to  betray  your  ignorance.  Don't 
ask  foolish  questions." 

For  the  exigencies  of  the  drama,  Wagner  has 
combined  the  personality  of  Gurnemanz,  the  old 
courtier,  with  that  of  Trevrezent,  the  wise  and 
saintly  hermit,  whom  Parzival  met  later  on  in 
his  career,  and  who  taught  him  a  divine  wisdom 
quite  beyond  the  compass  of  good  old  Gurne- 
manz, for  Trevrezent  was  as  learned  in  heavenly 
customs  as  Gurnemanz  in  those  of  earthly  courts. 
So  Parzival  acquired  his  courtesy,  as  we  all 
must  do,  from  those  familiar  with  widely  dif- 
ferent royalties. 

The  young  knight  rode  from  Gurnemanz' 
castle  at  last,  because  it  was  time  for  him  to 
meet  his  destined  love,  Kondwiramur,  whom  he 
must  win  by  overcoming  the  enemies  who  assailed 
her.  We  cannot  linger  over  this  tale  of  knightly 
prowess,  but  we  like  to  remember  that  Parzival 
experienced  all  the  sweetness  of  manly  lovo  and 

60 


of 

was  tested  in  constancy  before  he  could  be  so 
purified  as  to  learn  the  meaning  of  heavenly  love. 
The  legend  of  his  truth  and  fealty  to  his  wife 
has  penetrated  all  literatures,  and  we  find  every- 
where the  pretty  story  of  how  the  knight  fell 
into  profound  contemplation,  from  which  his 
comrades  could  not  rouse  him,  at  sight  of  the 
drop  of  blood  in  the  snow,  which  reminded  him 
instantly  of  the  red  and  white  in  the  face  of  his 
beloved.  The  legend  varies  in  details,  but  it  is 
originally  the  story  of  Parzival's  love.  Her  fair 
image  never  left  his  knightly  heart. 

He  rode  from  her,  however,  because  great 
deeds  must  be  accomplished,  and  the  Grail  castle 
loomed  before  him  with  its  question  to  be  asked 
and  answered.  He  had  ridden  far,  and  was 
anxious  as  to  a  shelter  for  the  night.  He  came 
to  the  shores  of  a  wide  sea,  and  saw  some  men 
in  a  boat.  One  of  them  wore  a  cap  made  of 
peacpck's  feathers,  and  was  as  richly  dressed 
as  a  king  would  be. 

61 


Parzival  called  aloud,  and  was  carefully 
directed  to  a  castle  not  far  distant,  which,  how- 
ever, he  had  not  seen,  and  his  informant  warned 
him  that  if  he  were  not  careful  he  might  miss 
his  way,  for  many  false  paths  would  lead  him 
from  the  castle.  He  added  that  if  he  reached 
it  in  safety,  he  himself  would  be  his  host. 

The  story  of  Amfortas,  as  Wolfram  tells  it, 
is  not  so  dramatically  conceived  as  it  appears 
in  the  music-drama,  yet  the  fundamental  idea 
is  the  same  in  both,  and  it  is  always  interesting 
to  discover  how  curiously,  in  almost  all  cases, 
the  later  poet  has  found  the  germ  of  even  his 
dramatic  placing  in  the  primitive  poem.  Thus 
the  wound  of  Amfortas  is  a  spear-thrust  which 
was  given  him  by  a  heathen  knight  in  the  service 
of  Orgeluse,  the  same  fair  lady  who  some  years 
afterward  bewitched  Gawain  so  successfully. 
Orgeluse  had  ensnared  Amfortas,  though  he  was 
Grail  king,  and  vowed  to  purity  and  holiness. 
She  was  also  under  the  spell  of  Klinschor,  and 

62 


of 

played  much  the  same  double  game  as  that 
which  is  given  to  Kundry  in  the  drama. 

The  wound  of  Amfortas  was  inflicted  by  a 
poisoned  spear,  and  would  not  heal.  It,  of 
course,  symbolizes  the  sin  of  passion,  as  is  more 
powerfully  expressed  in  Wagner's  drama.  The 
suffering  of  the  conscience-stricken  monarch,  as 
well  as  that  of  the  entire  Grail  circle  on  his 
account,  is  most  tenderly  recited  in  the  old  poem. 
Every  means  is  sought  for  his  relief  in  vain, 
and  at  last  the  luminous  letters  appear  about 
the  sacred  stone,  which  reveal  the  strange  fact 
that,  when  the  appointed  time  arrives,  a  knight 
will  enter  the  castle  who  will  ask  what  makes 
the  king  suffer,  and  immediately  he  will  be 
healed.  But  no  one  must  suggest  to  the  stranger 
that  the  question  should  be  asked. 

It  was  not  strange,  after  such  tragic  experi- 
ences and  long  years  of  waiting,  that  Parzival, 
like  many  other  strangers,  should  have  been 
courteously  received  at  the  Grail  castle.  Nor 

63 


was  it  strange  that  all  eyes  gazed  earnestly  upon 
him,  and  Repanse  de  Schoie,  the  Grail  bearer, 
sent  him  her  own  velvet  mantle  to  show  him 
honour.  It  seemed  as  if  this  noble  and  earnest- 
eyed  traveller  might  really  be  the  one  destined 
to  ask  the  question,  and  bring  peace  and  healing 
to  the  suffering  king. 

Wagner  is  largely  indebted  to  Wolfram  von 
Eschenbach  for  the  dramatic  and  picturesque 
scene  of  the  Grail  chamber,  where  the  banquet 
is  served,  for  no  portion  of  the  great  epic  is 
more  charming  and  suggestive  than  this.  The 
details  are  so  numerous  that  the  scene  seems 
to  live  before  our  eyes,  while  its  atmosphere  is 
so  mystically  poetic  that  its  meaning  can  hardly 
escape  even  the  careless  reader. 

The  procession  of  maidens  comes  in  twos  and 
fours,  in  sixes  and  eights,  and  seven,  winding, 
separating,  and  uniting  in  a  fashion  which  dis- 
plays the  old  poet's  perfect  familiarity  with  the 
cabalistic  symbolism  of  numbers,  so  that  their 

64 


of 

graceful  convolutions  preach  a  sermon  on  the 
realization  and  interpenetration  of  the  divine 
and  human.  They  bear  lights  and  perfumed 
torches;  they  bring  silver  plates  and  cups  for 
the  banquet,  which  always  accompanies  the  pres- 
entation of  the  Grail.  Four  knights  eat  and 
drink  from  the  same  cup  and  plate,  but  each 
partakes  of  the  food  and  wine  which  his  wish 
demands,  for  the  power  of  the  Grail  in  this, 
as  in  all  cases,  satisfies  every  need  of  the  earnest 
seeker. 

The  lights,  the  perfumes,  the  rich  dresses,  and 
fair,  sweet  faces  complete  a  most  charming  pic- 
ture, and  the  joy  of  the  moment  is  in  all  coun- 
tenances. Yet  the  guests  are  silent.  No  one 
laughs  aloud,  no  one  voices  that  strange  rapture 
which  the  lovely  presence  of  the  Grail  rouses  in 
the  human  soul. 

Parzival  looks  about  in  wonder  at  the  mag- 
nificent scene.  He  observes  that  the  king  alone 
is  sorrowful,  that  he  seems  to  be  suffering 

65 


deeply.  What  can  it  all  mean?  He  is  about 
to  ask,  when  suddenly  he  remembers  the  warning 
of  Gurnemanz :  "  Don't  betray  your  ignorance 
by  asking  foolish  questions." 

Ah,  he  has  bethought  himself  in  time !  He 
is  but  slightly  acquainted  with  courts,  with  cul- 
tured society.  How  does  he  know  but  such  a 
ceremonial  as  this  may  be  of  comparatively 
common  occurrence  among  people  of  high  posi- 
tion? And  what  would  they  think  of  his  igno- 
rance if  they  perceived  his  unsophisticated  sim- 
plicity? Certainly  the  epic  moment  is  a  vivid 
one. 

So  he  gazed  at  the  wonderful  picture  spread 
before  him ;  he  absorbed  the  wondrous  odours 
of  the  Grail;  he  felt  the  strange  and  inexpres- 
sible delight  of  its  presence,  and  behaved,  he 
was  assured,  like  a  polished  gentleman.  He  was 
presented  with  a  wonderful  sword,  such  as  he 
had  never  seen,  and,  as  he  noticed  the'  coun- 
tenance of  Amfortas  contract  with  pain,  the 

66 


of 

question  again  trembled  on  his  lips  —  What  ails  / 
you? 

But  he  repressed  it  once  more,  said  good  night 
to  his  courteous  host,  and  was  conducted  to  his 
chamber.  There  everything  was  prepared  for 
him  with  the  utmost  luxury,  and  he  sank  into 
oblivion  upon  his  couch,  quite  unaware  of  the 
rich  opportunity  which  had  escaped  him. 

When  he  rose  in  the  morning,  however,  all 
was  changed.  His  sleep  had  been  troubled  and 
tormented  by  terrible  dreams,  so  that  in  spite  of 
his  luxurious  couch  and  stately  attendance,  he 
was  rejoiced  to  see  the  morning  light.  No  one 
answered  his  call,  however,  and  at  last,  as  he 
perceived  his  armour  and  swords  lying  upon 
the  carpet  near  by,  he  rose,  attired  himself,  and 
prepared  for  departure. 

He  found  no  one  in  all  the  great  castle,  which 
answered  with  lonely  and  empty  echo  the  clash 
of  his  spurred  heels  against  the  stone  floor.  His 
horse  was  ready  saddled  in  the  stable;  he 

67 


mounted  and  rode  across  the  drawbridge.  As  he 
passed  out,  he  glanced  up  to  see  an  impish  face 
in  the  window  of  the  tower,  and  a  voice  called 
to  him,  reproachfully :  "  You  goose !  Why  did 
you  not  ask  the  question?"  Ah,  what  sombre 
shadows  enveloped  Parzival  as  the  words  fell 
upon  his  ear! 

Those  who  have  seen  Wagner's  great  music- 
drama  will  remember  how  dramatically  the  heal- 
ing of  Amfortas  is  conceived.  Parsifal  touches 
him  with  the  bleeding  spear  which  had  once 
pierced  the  side  of  the  Saviour,  and  which 
Klingsor  had  hurled  at  Amfortas  himself,  as 
Wagner  tells  the  story,  when  the  sinning  king 
wandered  into  his  forbidden  garden  of  delight. 
In  comparison  with  this,  the  simple  healing  by 
the  asking  of  a  mere  question  seems  far  less 
effective. 

Yet  the  dramatic  idea  of  the  presence  of  the 
bleeding  spear  was  not  neglected  by  the  old 
poet.  In  the  beginning  of  the  great  Grail  scene 

68 


of 

in  the  banquet-hall,  when  the  king  is  seated, 
but  before  the  maidens  have  entered  with  the 
joy  and  fragrance  which  herald  the  Grail,  a 
boy  suddenly  runs  through  the  chamber  with 
terrible  cries,  bearing  in  his  hands  a  bleeding 
spear.  The  thrill  of  horror  which  rises  at  his 
irruption  renders  the  succeeding  ecstasy  even 
doubly  appreciable,  and  reminds  one  strangely 
of  the  mystical  and  tragic  background  in  the 
pervading  glory. 

Wagner  was  always  alive  to  dramatic  neces- 
sities, and  he  wisely  made  use  of  the  suggestion 
of  the  spear  to  add  to  the  stage  effect  of  the 
king's  healing.  But  it  is  not  well  to  lose  sight 
of  the  beautiful  spiritual  thought  in  the  older 
poet's  mind  in  connection  with  the  question, 
and  this  is  suggested  in  Parzival's  conversation 
with  Sigune. 

As  he  rides  away  from  the  castle,  wrapped 
in  the  sadness  which  had  been  forced  upon  him 
by  the  dreams  of  the  night,  he  meets  his  cousin, 

69 


whom  he  does  not  recognize  at  first  because  of 
her  melancholy  and  forlorn  appearance.  She 
knows  him,  however,  and  questions  him  eagerly. 
When  she  learns  that  he  must  have  been  in  the 
Grail  castle,  in  the  blessed  interior  of  Mon-  — 
salvat,  she  takes  it  for  granted  that  he  has 
asked  the  question  and  healed  the  suffering 
king.  He  learns  then  that  he  was  destined  for 
that  noble  service,  and  that  his  own  conventional 
and  self-conscious  fear  has  prevented  its  per- 
formance. 

When  at  last  he  interrupts  the  flood  of  her 
eloquence,  and  tells  her  that  he  has  lost  his 
opportunity  and  failed  in  his  duty,  Sigune  can- 
not restrain  her  indignation,  and  her  eager  re- 
proach in  which  she  hurls  at  him  the  threat  that 
for  years  the  wolf's  tooth  shall  gnaw  his  heart 
is  naturally  the  suggestion  for  that  marvellous 
cursing  scene  in  Wagner's  drama,  where  it 
seems  as  if  all  the  powers  of  evil  combine  against 
the  hapless  boy,  whom  nevertheless  they  cannot 

70 


of 

overthrow.     It  is  of  course  Kundry  who  curses/ 
Parsifal  in  the  drama,  for  Sigune  is  not  intro- 
duced into  the  scene  of  the  modern  play. 

The  initial  moment  in  the  old  epic  is  exceed- 
ingly fine,  and  in  it  we  find  what  is  really  the 
key-note  to  the  feeling  of  the  entire  poem,  and 
the  spiritual  source  from  which  the  healing  of 
Amfortas  springs.  Weary  of  invective,  Sigune 
turns  to  Parzival  with  the  words: 

"  I  should  think  your  heart  would  have  been 
so  full  of  pity  that  you  could  not  have  helped 
asking  the  question." 

It  was  love  that  alone  could  heal  the  suffer- ) 
ing  monarch,  and,  if  the  love  was  not  already 
springing  in  Parzival's  soul,  the  necessary  words 
might  tremble  upon  his  tongue,  but  they  could 
not  fall  from  his  hesitating  lips.  So  he  must 
wander  for  many  years,  gnawed  by  the  wolf's 
tooth  of  her  scorn  and  his  own  profound  regret, 
before  the  moment  came  when  he  could  regain 
his  lost  opportunity. 

71 


"It  is  likely,"  she  cried,  "that  it  wiU  be 
granted  you!  You  were  born  to  achieve  the 
richest  prize  of  chivalry,  and  you  failed  at 
Monsalvat ! " 

In  all  the  Arthurian  romances,  the  Knight 
Gawain  fills  a  peculiar  place.  He  is  always  de- 
scribed as  a  brave  and  fearless  cavalier;  he  is 
frequently  painted  as  noble  and  worthy  of  his 
high  lineage,  but  he  is  as  often  represented  quite 
devoid  of  honourable  character  and  motives. 
He  is  drawn  as  a  treacherous  and  recreant 
knight. 

In  Wolfram's  "  Parzival,"  however,  his  per- 
sonality is  well  defined,  and  he  is  used  constantly 
as  the  foil  for  Parzival's  honour  and  fine  feel- 
ing. Parzival  can  never  forget  Sigune's  curse 
and  his  own  wretched  failure,  which  doomed  the 
unfortunate  king  to  longer  years  of  suffering, 
but  Gawain,  though  he  has  started  upon  the 
Grail  quest,  falls  in  love  with  that  very  Orge- 
luse  who  has  been  the  king's  destruction,  and 

72 


of 

invariably  drops  every  high  aim  for  the  light  J 
and  passing  pleasure  of  the  moment.  He  breaks 
the  charm  of  the  magic  bed  in  the  Wonder 
Castle,  and  frees  the  imprisoned  maidens,  but 
he  does  all  as  if  by  accident,  and  shows  neither 
purpose  nor  ideal. 

The  two  knights  are  powerfully  contrasted 
in  the  scene  at  the  round  table,  where  both  are 
unexpectedly  accused  of  unknightly  conduct 
in  the  presence  of  the  king  and  his  followers. 
Kondrie  appears  and  tells  the  pathetic  story  of 
Parzival's  failure  to  ask  the  question  at  the 
Grail  castle,  accusing  him  of  cowardice  and 
stupidity  unworthy  of  a  noble  knight.  Scarcely 
has  she  taken  her  departure  when  Kingrimursel 
presents  himself,  accuses  Gawain  of  treachery 
and  of  "  Judas  "  conduct,  on  account  of  which 
he  challenges  him  to  mortal  combat. 

Parzival  stands  dismayed  and  broken-hearted 
after  Kondrie's  cruel  accusation.  He  feels  as 
if  the  sacrifice  of  his  entire  life  would  not  offer 

73 


sufficient  reparation  for  the  fault  he  has  com- 
mitted. Gawain,  on  the  contrary,  is  scarcely 
disturbed.  He  is  anxious  about  his  armour, 
that  is  all,  and  is  careful  to  select  shield  and 
breastplate  that  can  withstand  heavy  blows. 

In  his  love  for  the  false  Orgeluse,  also,  Gawain 
is  compared  with  true-hearted  Parzival.  Ga- 
wain yields  himself  completely  to  her  wiles  and 
the  charm  of  her  beauty,  and  she  tells  him  of 
the  one  knight,  a  red  knight  all  in  red  armour 
—  for  Parzival  always  wore  the  gear  he  had 
won  from  Ither  in  his  first  combat  —  who  re- 
fused her  love,  and  refused  it  though  she  offered 
him  her  land  as  well. 

"  I  have  a  more  beautiful  wife  than  you," 
he  declared,  "  who  is  dearer  to  me  than  you 
could  ever  be.  Besides,  your  love  is  noth- 
ing to  me,  for  the  Grail  lies  heavy  on  my 
heart." 

"  So  he  spoke,"  concluded  Orgeluse,  as  she 
told  the  story  to  Gawain.  "  Now  be  my  judge. 

74 


of 

Was  I  slighted  by  his  scorn,  or  was  he  un- 
worthy of  the  love  I  offered  him  so  frankly?  " 

In  spite  of  Gawain's  lightness,  he  loved  the 
noble  character  of  Parzival,  so  he  answered, 
with  much  seriousness,  "  Lady,  the  knight 
whom  you  fancied  is  so  noble  a  man,  that  if' 
he  had  loved  you,  even  you  would  have  been 
honoured  by  his  preference." 

It  is  deeply  interesting  to  study  the  old  poem 
of  Wolfram,  and  realize  how  fully  Wagner 
must  have  been  penetrated  by  its  richness  and 
charm,  to  transform  it  as  he  has  into  the  jewelled 
and  brilliant  texture  of  his  great  drama.  For 
there  is  scarcely  a  clever  dramatic  point  in 
Wagner's  work,  which  is  not  suggested  in  dif- 
ferent form  in  the  elder  masterpiece.  For  in- 
stance, the  Kundry  of  the  drama  has  been 
spoken  of  as  practically  the  original  creation 
of  the  later  poet.  Yet  the  entire  character  and 
conduct  of  Wagners  Kundry  are  fully  de- 
lineated in  Wolfram's  Orgeluse.  As  has  been 

75 


shown,   she   has   no  influence   upon   Wolfram's 
Parzival,   but   she   has   been   the   ruin   of  Am- 
fortas,  and  plays  constantly  into  the  hands  of 
Klinschor  by  the  ensnaring  of  noble  cavaliers.    ; 
Wagner's   dramatic   instinct   led   him   to   drop  J 
both    Gawain    and    Orgeluse    from   his    list    of 
characters.     He  gives  the  role  of  Orgeluse  to 
his  own  Kundry,  and  in  her  endeavour  to  en- 
snare Parsifal,  and  its  result,  he  depicts  all  the 
struggle  and  development  of  the  hero's  soul. 

Meanwhile,  the  hint  which  led  him  to  invent 
the  character  of  his  own  Kundry,  or  rather 
transform  and  repaint  the  Kondrie-Orgeluse 
of  the  epic,  is  found  in  the  old  poem  itself. 
Kondrie  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  Grail  messenger 
in  Wolfram's  hands.  She  seeks  Parzival,  as 
has  been  shown,  at  the  round  table,  and  insults 
him,  apparently  for  the  good  of  his  soul,  and 
later  leads  him  once  more  to  the  holy  place. 
But  she  goes  also  to  the  Wonder  Castle  of 
Klinschor,  and  Queen  Arnive  tells  Gawain, 

76 


of 

while  she  is  dressing  his  wounds,  how  Kondrie 
la  Sorciere  has  taught  her  wondrous  things  in 
the  healing  of  wounds,  for  Kondrie  is  very 
wise., 

We  can  see  also,  in  the  vivid  and  half -humour- 
ous description  Wolfram  gives  of  the  inde- 
scribably horrible  plainness  of  Kondrie,  and 
her  curiously  rich  attire,  how  Wagner  gained 
from  it  the  hint  he  needed  to  create  his  own 
strange  and  fascinating  Kundry,  who,  during 
half  her  time,  must  be  a  beautiful,  clever,  and 
irresistible  witch  whom  no  man  can  resist,  and 
for  the  remainder  becomes  a  sorrowing  woman 
who  would  save  the  poor  souls  her  spell  has 
bewildered ! 

It  must  not  be  supposed  for  a  moment  that 
Wagner's  appropriation  of  the  earlier  epic 
was  in  the  least  open  to  criticism.  He  used  it 
frankly  as  a  portion  of  that  rich,  mythic 
treasure  gathered  in  the  development  of  the 
human  race,  to  which  all  men  have  added,  and 

77 


from  which  all  are  free  to  take  in  their  turn. 
It  was  his  profound  sympathy  with  everything 
the  older  poem  contained  which  enabled  him 
to  transmute  its  contents  with  such  remark- 
able effect. 

Thus  he  would  probably  have  thought  of 
using  the  spear  as  a  means  of  healing  more 
dramatic  than  the  simple  question,  even  if  / 
Chrestien  de  Troyes  had  not  done  so  in  his 
poem  of  "  Perchevaus,"  for  the  spear  plays  a 
very  significant  part  in  the  epic,  as  well  as 
in  Wagner's  drama. 

When  Parzival's  wanderings  bring  him  finally 
to  the  woodland  cell  of  Trevrezent,  where  at 
last  his  soul  shall  find  peace,  he  remembers 
that  he  has  been  there  before,  and  recognizes 
the  spear  he  sees  as  that  of  Duke  Orilus,  the 
husband  of  Jeschute,  from  whom  he  had  torn 
the  ring  in  his  first  adventure  after  leaving 
the  forest. 

One   of   the   significant    points   in   Parzival's 

78 


of 

development,  as  Wolfram  describes  it,  is  that 
he  must  always  repent  practically  of  his  sins, 
that  is,  must  make  reparation  for  his  wrong- 
doings, not  to  the  Church,  but  to  those  he  has 
injured.  When  he  left  Jeschute  in  tears  and 
terror,  he  was  by  no  means  free  from  her.  He 
meets  her  later,  after  he  has  been  to  Monsalvat, 
and  wakened  to  a  consciousness  of  his  erring 
state,  and  finds,  to  his  dismay,  that  since  his 
encounter  with  her  that  fateful  day,  her  hus- 
band has  believed  her  untrue  to  him,  and  has 
treated  her  with  cruelty.  Parzival  encounters 
Duke  Orilus,  conquers  him,  and  makes  him 
swear  that  hereafter  he  will  deal  gently  with 
Jeschute.  Then  he  goes  with  him  to  a  forest 
retreat,  where  they  find  a  holy  reliquary,  upon 
which  Parzival  swears  a  solemn  oath  that 
Jeschute  is  as  innocent  as  the  sunshine,  and 
that  when  he  took  her  jewels,  and  kissed  her 
lips,  he  was  "  not  yet  a  man,"  only  a  heedless 
fool.  So  Orilus  is  at  last  convinced.  He  wipes 
79 


the  blood  from  his  combat-smitten  lips,  and 
kisses  her  warmly,  not  from  compulsion.  He 
also  covers  her  with  his  warrior's  mantle, 
slashed  with  many  a  hero's  sword  cut.  Strange 
ornament  for  a  fair  lady!  adds  the  old  chron- 
icler, but  it  was  many  a  day  since  Jeschute  had 
been  honoured  with  the  touch  of  its  knightly 
folds. 

Parzival  left  the  happy  pair  in  the  hermit's 
cell,  and  went  on  to  establish  peace  elsewhere 
upon  the  earth.  Two  years  and  a  half  later, 
he  pauses  in  his  wanderings  at  the  door  of  the 
same  cell,  but  he  does  not  remember  it  until 
he  suddenly  recognizes  the  reliquary  upon 
which  he  had  sworn  Jeschute's  innocence,  and 
the  spear  which  Orilus  must  have  left  behind 
him. 

"  How  long  has  that  been  here  ?  "  he  asks 
the  good  hermit,  and  Trevrezent,  referring  to 
his  prayer-book,  where  the  event  had  been  noted, 
gives  him  the  months  and  days. 

80 


of 

Then  Parzival  realizes  the  weariness  of  the 
time  he  has  wandered,  separated  from  the  wife 
he  loves  so  dearly,  unable  to  find  the  gray  walls 
of  Monsalvat,  to  see  the  blessed  Grail  once 
more,  and  heal  the  suffering  king.  But  at  least 
he  has  found  some  one  to  whom  he  can  reveal 
all  the  burden  of  his  sorrows,  and  understand 
in  every  detail  the  wonderful  history  of  the 
Grail  castle,  and  the  wounded  king. 

We  know  how  Parzival's  heart  contracted, 
and  how  fully  he  forgot  his  own  sorrows  as  he 
was  told  of  the  poisoned  spear  which  had  in- 
flicted the  burning  wound,  and  how  the  metal 
was  so  deadly  cold  that  only  when  it  was  placed 
upon  his  fevered  flesh  was  the  king's  pain  for 
a  moment  assuaged!  And  he  could  have  ended 
it  for  ever !  Had  he  but  forgotten  his  own  foolish 
dignity,  Amfortas  would  have  spent  the  last 
five  years  in  j  oy  and  happiness ! 

Then  he  was  told  of  the  comfort  of  the  waters 
of  the  wide  sea,  by  which  the  castle  stood.  The 

81 


sufferer  lay  often  in  his  boat,  rocking  upon 
the  soft  embrace  of  the  waves,  and  the  gentle 
breezes  brought  relief  to  his  anguish.  Ah, 
Parzival!  And  you  could  have  given  him  sweet 
sleep  for  many  years ! 

So  the  story  goes  on,  until  we  seem  to  see 
how  love  has  taken  complete  possession  of  the 
hero's  soul,  and  he  has  even  ceased  to  remember 
his  own  sorrows.  He  has  lost  them  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  another's  deeper  anguish.  It  is 
at  such  a  moment  that  the  elixir  of  the  Grail  / 
enters  the  soul,  and  wise  Trevrezent  knew  well 
what  he  was  doing  as  he  dwelt  upon  the  details 
of  the  wonderful  story  in  which  his  hearer  was 
so  intensely  interested. 

We  see  also  how  curiously  Wagner  has  inter- 
woven even  the  outer  incidents  of  the  epic  into 
the  scenic  structure  of  his  masterpiece.  The 
spear  which  wounded  Amfortas  was  not  that 
of  Calvary,  and  the  spear  preserved  in  Trevre- 
zent's  cell  was  not  that  which  had  wounded  the 

82 


The 


&£ 
of 


king,  yet  each  has  reappeared  transformed  in 
the  dramatic  part  the  spear  plays  in  the  musi- 
cian's hands,  and  the  spear  of  Wagner  was 
fashioned  in  the  poetic  fires  of  the  older  poet's 
laboratory. 

In  the  drama  the  spear  is  always  that  with 
which  Christ  was  wounded  on  Calvary.  It 
wounds  Amfortas  in  turn  as  a  punishment  for 
his  passionate  sin,  then  Klingsor  hurls  it  at 
young  Parsifal,  when  he  dares  resist  the  fas- 
cination of  Kundry,  and  Parsifal,  unterrified, 
catches  it  in  its  dangerous  flight,  makes  with 
it  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  the  air,  and  with 
that  holy  symbol  of  love,  breaks  the  spell  of 
Klingsor's  magic  so  that  the  beauties  of  his 
garden  crumble  into  dust ! 

Then,  when  the  Parsifal  of  Wagner,  in  his 
turn,  reaches  the  term  of  his  wanderings,  his 
pain  and  purification,  he  finds  Gurnemanz,  as 
the  elder  Parzival  found  Trevrezent,  and  the 
hero  is  recognized  by  his  spear.  Gurnemanz 

83 


has  watched  for  his  return,  bearing  it  in  his 
hand,  because  he  knows  that  one  day  it  will 
heal  the  king. 

There  are  several  specially  beautiful  situa- 
tions in  the  three  acts  of  Wagner's  drama, 
into  which  he  has  compressed  the  wide  compass 
of  the  rich  old  epic.  Among  these,  the  shoot- 
ing of  the  swan  naturally  comes  first,  for  in  it 
we  feel  all  the  sweet  forest  rearing  of  the  boy, 
and  the  peculiar  innocence  of  his  undeveloped 
state.  The  strange  and  mysterious  charm  of 
the  castle  of  Monsalvat,  its  quiet  waters,  its 
peace,  and  the  mystic  suffering  of  its  king, 
are  all  powerfully  mirrored  in  this  great  initial 
scene  of  the  drama.  The  boy's  soul  stirs  and 
wakens  at  the  death  of  the  swan,  as  did  that 
of  Parzival  at  the  death  of  the  song-bird,  and 
we  know  that,  whatever  mistakes  he  may  regret 
hereafter,  he  will  not  turn  an  unlistening  ear 
to  the  divine  voice. 

In  the  second  act,  the  scene  with  Kundry  is 

84 


of  })ar0ffale 

of  the  same  comprehensive  sort.  Kundry 
knows  the  innocent  heart  of  the  boy  whom  she 
would  ensnare  in  spite  of  herself,  and  she  en- 
deavours to  rouse  in  him  an  ignoble  love,  by 
recalling  to  him  the  caressing  fondness  of  his 
mother.  So  he  is  startled  suddenly  by  his 
mother's  voice  calling  him  —  "  Par-si-f al !  Par- 
si-f al ! "  The  lingering  syllables,  quivering 
with  his  mother's  love,  envelop  him  in  a  flood 
of  tenderness.  But  such  tenderness!  It  is  the 
caress  of  the  stars  and  the  breezes  of  morning. 
It  is  an  elixir  so  powerful  that  the  poison  of 
Kundry's  kiss  is  incorporated  in  its  current, 
and  illuminates  him  suddenly  with  a  knowledge 
of  what  Amfortas  suffers.  Ah!  it  was  this 
which  caused  his  pain !  It  was  the  bitter  sting 
of  passion.  And  he  might  have  healed  him !  He, 
a  foolish,  inexperienced  boy,  might  have  saved 
the  king!  Parsifal  springs  to  his  feet  in  the 
anguish  of  the  moment;  the  wiles  of  Kundry 
are  as  nothing,  the  magic  of  Klingsor  is  broken 
85 


before  the  endless  pity  which  beats  and  surges 
in  the  heart  of  the  loving  youth. 

In  the  last  act,  the  memory  loves  to  dwell 
upon  the  baptism  of  Kundry,  and  the  healing 
of  Amfortas,  for  in  these  two  scenes  the  sym- 
bolism of  the  poem  finds  its  consummation,  and 
the  music  naturally  rises  to  its  greatest  power. 
In  the  healing  of  the  suffering  monarch,  where 
the  dove  descends,  and  the  king  is  touched  with 
the  wonderful  spear,  with  which  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  observer  has  become  familiarized  as 
an  object  of  strange  significance  and  potency, 
feeling  is  so  intensified  as  to  be  almost  unbear- 
able, and  the  ethereal  grace  and  benediction  of 
the  music  express  what  can  never  be  given  form 
in  words. 

The  descent  of  the  dove  is  one  of  the  beauti- 
ful touches  which  Wolfram  had  conceived,  for 
Trevrezent  describes  to  Parzival  the  wonderful 
uplift  which  all  souls  experience  when  the 
snowy  dove  flies  from  heaven,  and  leaves  upon 

86 


of 

the  marvellous  stone  its  offering.  From  that 
gift  arises  the  strange  nourishing  power  of  the 
Grail,  he  assures  his  reverent  listener,  so  that 
until  the  dove  again  descends,  all  shall  be  fed 
upon  ambrosia. 

In  Kundry,  Wagner  has  combined  the  figures 
of  Kondrie  and  Orgeluse,  as  has  been  said.  In 
the  treatment  of  the  love  theme  in  his  drama,  he 
has  been  accused  on  the  one  side  of  marked  senti- 
mentalism,  and  on  the  other  of  extreme  artifi- 
ciality, but  neither  is  true.  It  would  have  been 
impossible  for  him  to  study  the  old  poem  with 
the  sympathy  he  felt  for  its  theme,  and  not 
become  to  a  certain  extent  a  symbolist.  But 
he  was  a  symbolist  from  temperament,  as  was 
Wolfram  before  him,  so  that  we  cannot  under- 
stand anything  he  did,  if  we  refuse  to  recog- 
nize his  symbolism. 

The  theme  of  "  Parsifal "  is  spiritual  love ; 
the  finding  of  the  Grail  is  the  awakening  of  the 
soul  to  this  love,  and  while  the  entire  life  of 

87 


the  hero  paints  the  evolution  of  his  nature 
from  animal  consciousness  to  spiritual  love  and 
wisdom,  as  it  may  be  attained  in  each  human 
soul,  the  figure  of  Kundry  illustrates  what  one 
might  denominate  the  struggle  of  love.  Kun-~ 
dry  has  been  forced,  by  the  magic  spell  of 
Klingsor,  to  rouse  the  passions  of  men,  and 
ensnare  and  ruin  them  thereby.  Her  soul  is 
awakened,  and  she  wishes,  on  the  contrary,  to 
save  and  heal  them.  Her  contact  with  Parsifal 
has  taught  her  the  meaning  of  pure  love.  She 
begins  to  understand  the  love  of  Heaven  by 
experiencing  the  pure  love  of  man.  It  was 
impossible  for  the  dramatist  to  paint  the  entire 
evolution  of  Parzival's  spirit,  so  he  illustrates 
in  Kundry's  love,  and  its  result,  what  Wolfram 
shows  in  his  hero's  long  constancy  for  Kond- 
wiramur. 

In  the  epic,  Parzival's  visit  to  Trevrezent 
marks  his  entrance  upon  the  path  which  will 
lead  him  again  to  Monsalvat,  and  enable  him 

88 


of  })av0ffal€c 

to  heal  the  king.  He  stays  two  weeks  with  the 
old  hermit,  whom  he  learns  is  his  uncle,  the 
brother  of  Amfortas,  and  also  of  Herzeleide; 
for  Parzival  knows  at  last  that  he  really  be- 
longs to  the  Grail  family.  The  simple  life  of 
prayer  and  fasting,  the  long  and  loving  talks 
with  the  saintly  hermit,  melt  the  bitterness  in 
Parzival's  heart,  and  he  begins  to  believe  that 
he  has  not  lost  God,  that  in  fact  he  may  still 
make  good  that  sad  lack  of  love,  of  which  he 
had  once  been  guilty. 

So  he  said  farewell  to  the  hermit  with  a  cheer- 
ful and  comforted  soul,  and  rode  away  to 
Arthur's  court,  to  realize,  to  his  surprise,  that 
he  was  honoured  there  as  the  greatest  knight 
in  the  world.  For,  while  Parzival  had  been 
righting  his  own  mistakes,  and  succouring  the 
unfortunate,  he  had  been  altogether  too  busy 
to  notice  that  men  called  him  great,  and  de- 
clared he  was  without  a  peer  in  the  world  of 
chivalry ! 

89 


It  was  just  at  this  time,  also,  that  he  found 
his  half-brother  Feirifisz,  who  was  the  son  of 
that  Saracen  wife  his  father  had  married  in 
his  youth.  The  young  man  would  have  been 
called  a  heathen,  but  Parzival  took  him  to  his 
heart  without  asking  if  he  had  been  baptized, 
and  one  wonders,  in  reading  the  story,  that 
Wolfram,  who  lived  in  the  crusading  days  of 
the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  has  limned 
for  us  the  character  of  Feirifisz  with  so  genial 
a  touch. 

The  moment  arrived  at  last  when  Parzival 
was  again  seated  at  the  banquet-table  of  Arthur, 
surrounded  by  the  members  of  that  famous 
band  whose  names  still  thrill  us  with  the  mem- 
ory of  their  prowess  and  noble  deeds.  The  day 
was  Parzival's,  the  banquet  in  his  honour,  and 
once  more  Kondrie  rode  into  the  hall.  But  this 
time  she  came  not  to  assail  Parzival  and  fill 
his  soul  with  gloom,  but  to  bring  him  honour 
and  joy,  to  conduct  him  to  Monsalvat.  Do 

90 


of 

you  believe  he  could  hesitate  to  obey  the  sum- 
mons? All  the  glory  of  the  world  was  about 
him,  clothed  him,  its  plaudits  and  titles  were 
thrust  upon  him,  but  he  pushed  them  from  him 
eagerly,  with  joy,  to  enter  the  presence  of 
divine  and  perfect  love!  But  how  could  he 
do  anything  else?  There  are  so  few  of  us  who 
can  understand  even  the  first  syllable  of  the 
meaning  of  love  in  this  short  life  of  ours,  and 
Parzival  knew  that  now  he  was  to  learn  it,  the 
entire  definition,  even  to  its  concluding  letter, 
as  far  as  the  human  mind  could  contain  its 
infinite  beauty. 

Kondrie  told  him  that  he  had  the  privilege 
of  taking  one  companion  with  him,  and  he 
immediately  chose  Feirifisz;  he  was  a  heathen, 
but  he  was  a  brother,  and  evidently  Parzival 
was  more  than  ready  for  the  first  syllable  of 
love!  They  rode  at  a  swift  pace  across  the 
country,  and  stood  soon  in  the  presence  of  the 
suffering  king.  You  can  be  certain  that  his 

91 


greeting  was  a  glad  one;  but  Amfortas  begged 
that  the  stranger  would  not  remain  in  the 
Grail  chamber,  and  we  are  reminded  of  the 
tradition  that  no  one  could  perceive  the  Grail 
who  had  not  been  baptized.  Surely,  we  con- 
fess immediately,  one  must  believe  in  Gcd,  and 
incline  the  ear  with  humility  to  hear  his  voice, 
or  it  will  not  be  audible.  The  fragrance  of 
the  Grail  and  its  illuminating  vision  can  only 
be  apprehended  by  the  supersensitive  conscious- 
ness of  the  awakened  soul. 

We  like  to  remember  that,  after  Feirifisz  was 
baptized,  he  married  no  less  a  person  than 
Repanse  de  Schoie  herself,  who  had  borne  the 
Grail  at  Monsalvat  so  many  years  that  certainly 
nothing  but  sweet  wisdom  could  have  remained 
in  her  beautiful,  earthly  tabernacle.  None  but 
a  singularly  broad-minded  Christian  poet  of 
the  thirteenth  century  could  have  wedded  her 
to  one  who  was  born  and  bred  a  Saracen.  The 
stranger  must  have  caught  the  accents  of  the 

92 


of 

Grail  in  his  Arabic  tongue  to  cherish  them  in 
his  loving  and  earnest  heart!  Otherwise  he 
could  not  have  sought  his  wife  in  the  castle 
of  Monsalvat. 

We  realize  in  this  little  incident  that  Wolfram 
had  recognized  the  widespread  influence  of  the 
Grail.  It  speaks  in  all  tongues,  whispers  in 
all  hearts,  is  the  mystic  chain  of  union  for 
mankind.  No  race  is  so  lost  in  savagery  as 
not  to  be  lifted  into  the  radiance  of  its  vision. 

When  Feirifisz  had  left  his  brother  with  the 
king,  Parzival  did  not  wait  for  the  great  pro- 
cession, for  the  opening  of  the  sliding  walls, 
or  the  performance  of  any  ceremonial.  He 
begged  only  that  he  might  see  the  Grail,  that 
he  might  be  granted  an  assurance  of  the  reality 
of  his  mission.  But  he  could  scarcely  speak  to 
ask  the  all-important  question ;  his  voice  broke 
in  its  utterance  of  the  simple  words,  and  the 
cause  of  the  miracle  was  evident,  for  truly 
Parzival  could  not  help  asking  the  question! 

93 


The  healing  love-spirit,  which  fills  the  nar- 
ration of  Wolfram,  and  renders  the  simplicity 
of  his  description  exceedingly  eloquent,  has 
coloured  and  inspired  the  music  of  Wagner 
in  this  scene,  so  that  it  heightens  and  interprets 
the  effect  of  the  healing,  as  words  could  not 
do.  When  Parsifal  lifts  the  crystal  cup,  and 
it  is  illuminated  by  a  shaft  of  crimson  light, 
as  the  white  dove  descends,  the  scene  is  as  per- 
fect in  its  varied  aspect  as  could  well  be 
imagined.  All  the  avenues  to  the  senses  are 
filled  by  those  delicate  and  lovely  sensations 
which  we  associate  with  experiences  of  the  soul, 
and  the  bodily  nerves  are  forced  to  convey  only 
impressions  which  we  call  those  of  heaven, 
because  they  are  so  far  removed  from  the 
region  of  our  passion  and  pain. 

It  will  be  evident  to  any  one  who  compares 
the  drama  with  the  epic,  that  Wagner  has  not 
given  us  "  a  Schopenhauer  set  to  music,"  as 
some  of  the  critics  have  declared.  He  took  his 

94 


of 

materials  from  all  sources.  The  crystal  cup, 
which  is  so  effective  as  it  is  illuminated  by 
crimson  light,  is  described  in  the  "  Krone,"  by 
Heinrich  von  dem  Turlin.  The  lance,  or  spear, 
which  is  usually  the  traditional  and  legendary 
one  of  Loginus,  outside  of  Wolfram's  hands, 
played  a  more  prominent  part  in  the  mediaeval 
romances  of  France  and  Germany  than  in  those 
of  the  great  minstrel.  The  dove,  the  chalice, 
the  fragrance  and  miraculous  qualities  of  the 
Grail  appear  in  all  the  legends,  but  only  in 
the  minds  of  Wolfram  and  his  mighty  successor 
are  all  these  heavenly  gifts  used  for  the  illus- 
tration of  a  spiritual  truth. 

The  extent  and  manner  in  which  Wagner 
was  influenced  by  Schopenhauer  is  not  under- 
stood by  many  critics.  The  great  idealist 
philosopher  is  not  necessarily  a  pessimist,  and 
did  not  make  Wagner  one.  He  realized  fully  — 
as  a  philosopher  merely  —  that  the  sensitive 
thinking  side  of  life  represents  its  only  reality, 

95 


and  offers  the  only  possibility  of  happiness  for 
mankind  of  a  permanent  and  positive  sort.  To 
this  we  can  only  attain  by  the  elimination  of 
selfishness,  and  it  is  selfish  desire,  not  love  of 
the  beautiful  and  of  one's  kind  and  kin,  which 
his  teaching  would  destroy.  The  "  will  to  live  " 
which  craves  physical  gratification,  sumptuous 
dinners  and  great  wealth,  personal  power,  must 
be  granted  no  empire  in  the  aspiring  soul,  but 
a  "  will  to  live "  which  demands  the  salvation 
of  the  world,  homes  for  the  people,  happiness 
in  every  heart,  —  that  is  what  allies  man  to 
God  himself.  In  this  way  the  idealist  teach- 
ing of  Schopenhauer  strengthened  Wagner's 
own  interest  in  all  questions  which  touch  upon 
the  brotherhood  of  men,  and  rendered  him 
doubly  sympathetic  to  the  emphasis  of  Wolfram 
von  Eschenbach  in  such  directions. 

We  know  almost  nothing  of  the  old  poet 
himself.  He  has  told  us  he  was  of  peasant 
birth,  and  intimates  that  he  was  so  little  skilled 

96 


of 

in  books  as  to  be  ignorant  of  reading  and  writ- 
ing. But  this  can  hardly  be  true.  The  poem 
bears  every  evidence  of  having  been  sung  and 
not  written,  and  it  was  no  doubt  preserved  as 
the  minstrel  sang  it  with  the  accompaniment  of 
his  harp.  It  is  full  of  charming  humourous 
touches,  and  descriptive  and  philosophic  addi- 
tions, which  would  have  been  excluded  from  a 
"  clerkly  "  manuscript,  such  as  the  poet  evidently 
scorned,  but  rose  most  naturally  as  confidences 
between  the  improvisator  and  a  sympathetic 
audience.  They  express  the  character  of  the 
man  better  than  a  biography,  and  explain  the 
singular  charm  which  the  poem  retains  for  all 
students  of  its  original. 

Wolfram  had  travelled  much.  He  had  visited 
that  fascinating  city  of  Toulouse,  which  was  > 
the  most  cultured  and  liberal  centre  of  the  world 
in  his  day.  He  had  won  knighthood  and  posi- 
tion through  his  achievements  in  arms  and 
poetry,  —  one  can  hardly  say  "  letters,"  —  and 

97 


he  speaks  throughout  his  work  as  a  singularly 
independent  and  sympathetic  observer  of  life. 
It  is  this  which  has  given  his  production  so 
marked  an  individuality  that  the  German  critics 
speak  of  Wolfram  as  essentially  the  stylist  in 
the  group  of  poets  to  which  he  belongs. 

He  married  and  lived  modestly  with  his  wife 
and  one  child.  He  never  attained  much  wealth, 
and  certainly  would  not  have  cared  to  possess 
it.  He  was  so  cheerful  a  mystic  that  the  lux- 
uries of  life  would  have  troubled  him  more  than 
they  rejoiced  him. 

Such  a  temperament  must  necessarily  have 
appealed  to  a  poet  like  Richard  Wagner,  and 
he  returned  again  and  again  to  Wolfram's 
"  Parzival,"  until  at  last  his  decision  was  taken, 
and  he  wrote  the  lines  of  his  own  drama  in  1876, 
though  it  was  not  published  before  1877.  The 
music  was  more  slowly  committed  to  paper,  so 
that  it  was  not  ready  for  the  orchestra  until 
1882.  This  was  not  because  it  was  in  any  way 

98 


of 

disconnected  with  the  text.  Wagner  declared 
once  that  he  always  heard  his  music  while  he 
composed  his  poem,  and  never  forgot  it.  But 
in  this  instance  there  were  many  distractions 
which  rendered  it  difficult  for  him  to  get  his 
notes  upon  paper.  He  could  hardly  have  written 
it  earlier,  since  it  was  expressive  of  the  new 
peace  which  had  entered  his  life. 

Wagner  was  born  in  1813,  and  did  not  form 
the  connection  with  King  Ludwig  of  Bavaria 
until  1864,  when  he  was  fifty-one  years  old. 
Up  to  that  time  he  had  very  nearly  completed 
the  work  of  his  life,  with  practically  no  evidence 
of  worldly  appreciation  or  recognition.  Even  at 
the  period  of  his  death,  he  was  not  free  from 
financial  anxiety,  but  the  patronage  and  sym- 
pathetic support  of  the  king  relieved  him  from 
the  distress  of  actual  poverty,  and  assured  him 
an  income. 

The  king's  friendship  also  gave  him  a  posi- 
tion before  the  world  which  he  could  not  have 

99 


attained  otherwise,  and  brought  him  the  second 
marriage  that  surrounded  him  for  the  first  time 
in  his  experience  with  an  atmosphere  of  sweet 
comprehension  and  that  intimate  companionship 
which  means  so  much  to  the  artist.  His  wife 
and  his  home  henceforth  formed  a  happy  centre 
for  his  work. 

All  this  enabled  him  to  realize  more  fully  in 
feeling  the  theories  he  had  held,  and  so  he  wrote 
the  "  victor  drama,"  which  was  a  most  appro- 
priate conclusion  to  the  series  he  had  dedicated 
to  what  might  be  termed  the  struggle  of  the 
ideal  in  its  relations  with  human  life.  His  cup 
of  bitterness  had  been  pressed  very  full.  He 
had  experienced  all  Parzival's  anguish;  he  had 
been  at  Monsalvat,  and  had  failed  to  ask  the 
question,  and  it  was  but  fit  that  at  last  he  should 
be  permitted  to  reign  for  a  little  while  in  the 
Grail  castle. 

It  could  not  have  been  an  accident  that  in  the 
last  tempestuous  years  of  the  wonderful  nine- 

100 


of 

teenth  century  the  Grail  ideal  was  given  out- 
ward shape  once  more,  and  this  time  in  a  form 
which  made  it  the  vehicle  of  public  production 
before  the  eyes  of  men,  the  illustrator  of  per- 
fection in  the  three  great  lines  of  music,  art, 
and  the  drama.  The  sweet  and  heavenly  con- 
ception of  the  poet  of  the  thirteenth  century 
has  been  realized  again  through  the  brain  of 
a  lover  of  his  kind,  and  has  been  spoken  to  us 
with  such  eloquence  that  we  cannot  forget  it. 

We  remember  that  in  all  ages  the  fragrance 
of  the  Grail  has  lingered  about  the  senses  of 
man;  the  poet  has  felt  it;  the  ecstasy  of  the 
prophet  has  perceived  it;  men  have  sought  it, 
have  found  it,  have  not  despaired  even  when 
they  lost  it.  In  the  wonderful  present,  with 
its  gigantic  contrasts,  its  lightning  progress  and 
unique  opportunity,  it  seems  sometimes  as  if  the 
day  of  achievement  had  arrived,  and  we  should 
throw  wide  the  gates  of  the  Grail  castle  for  all 
men.  The  knight  of  the  Grail  is  among  us,  we 

101 


of 

hear  his  voice,  we  see  the  light  of  his  eye,  and 
the  world  listens  as  never  before  to  his  mes- 
sage, knowing  for  the  first  time  what  it  means 
when  love  enters  life. 


VMRA 

Of  TMt 

UNIVERSITY 
or 


THE    END. 


102 


Remarque  Edition 


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SONNETS    FROM    THE    PORTUGUESE.      By 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

In  the  "  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,"  a  most 
exquisite  series  of  love  poems,  we  have  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing at  her  best.  She  has  broken  away  from  that 
stiffness  and  artificiality  which  characterizes  her 
earlier  poems,  and  in  sentiment  and  lofty  rhyme 
is  at  times  truly  Shakespearian. 


VIRGINIBUS    PUERISQUE.      By    Robert    Louis 
Stevenson. 

Since,  unfortunately,  most  of  our  juvenile  liter- 
ature nowadays  is  the  work  of  "  hack "  writers, 
it  is  refreshing  to  find  a  work  for  boys  and  girls 
written  by  a  man  of  genius.  "  Virginibus  Puerisque  " 
stands  high  among  Mr.  Stevenson's  writings,  and  is 
enjoyed  by  both  old  and  young. 


FRIENDSHIP    AND    LOVE.     By    Ralph    Waldo 
Emerson. 

Mr.  Emerson  is  no  bookish  theorist.  He  does 
not  draw  his  conclusions  from  syllogisms,  but  from 
his  personal  observations  of  men  and  things.  The 
essays  on  Friendship  and  Love,  two  of  his  most 
human,  being  subjects  akin  to  each  other,  are  pub- 
lished together  as  a  single  volume. 


HEROISM  AND  CHARACTER.    By  Ralph  Waldo 

Emerson. 

As  Friendship  and  Love  are  linked,  so  Heroism 
and  Character  are  complementary.  In  fact,  we  per- 
ceive a  strong  connection  between  the  four  subjects. 
For  friendship  deepens  in  love,  and  from  love  for 
one's  neighbor,  one's  family,  one's  State,  comes 
heroism,  and  heroism  is  the  essential  element  of 
a  noble  character. 


POOR    RICHARD'S    ALMANAC.      By    Benjamin 

Franklin. 

A  selection  of  the  best  sayings  from  the  numerous 
issues  of  "  Poor  Richard."  Helpful  and  inspiring; 
the  work  of  a  most  practical  mind,  written  for  a 
most  practical  nation. 

THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.     By  Sheridan. 

Sheridan's  comedies  are  second  only  to  Shake- 
speare's. "  The  School  for  Scandal,"  undoubtedly 
his  masterpiece,  has  had  an  undiminished  popularity 
from  the  moment  it  was  published  to  the  present 
day. 

DESTRUCTION    OF    POMPEII.     By    Pliny   and 

Bulwer. 

Two  interesting  descriptions  of  the  Destruction 
of  Pompeii,  one  by  Pliny,  the  greatest  scientist 
of  the  ancient  world,  who  wrote  as  an  eye-witness; 
the  other  the  well-known  and  thrilling  account  from 
Lord  Lytton's  "  Last  Days  of  Pompeii." 

SIR    ROGER    DE    COVERLEY    PAPERS.      By 
Addison. 

The  famous  "  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers  "  are 
not  only  treasured  by  all  students  of  English  liter- 
ature, but  by  historians  as  well.  For  nowhere  do 
we  find  a  finer  description  of  English  life  in  the 
eighteenth  century  than  in  these  papers.  Further- 
more, in  the  character  of  Sir  Roger  we  find  the 
finest  delineation  in.  English  literature  of  an  ideal 
gentleman. 

MILTON.    By  Lord  Macaulay. 

A  profound  and  masterly  essay  on  the  leader  of 
English  literature  of  the  seventeenth  century  by  the 
leading  literary  critic  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

3 


THOUGHTS  OF  MARCUS  AURELIUS.     Selec- 
tions. 

Marcus  Aurelius  was  the  purest  and  loftiest  of 
the  pagan  philosophers.  "  Plis  great  work,  '  The 
Thoughts,' "  says  Lecky,  "  not  only  forms  one  of 
the  most  impressive,  but  also  forms  one  of  the 
truest  books  in  the  whole  range  of  religious  liter- 
ature." 

LORD     CHESTERFIELD'S    LETTERS.      Selec- 
tions. 

These  letters  of  sound  counsel  and  practical  advice, 
addressed  to  his  son  Philip,  are  what  Lord  Chester- 
field's reputation  rests  upon,  and  it  is  through  these 
that  the  name  of  Chesterfield  has  become  symbolic 
of  culture  and  refinement 

RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM. 

The  "  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam "  is  one  of 
the  greatest  contributions  that  the  East  has  given 
to  literature.  The  subtle  thought,  the  soft  Oriental 
imagery,  and  the  delicacy  of  the  poetry  will  appeal 
to  the  poetic  imagination  of  all  ages. 

ENOCH  ARDEN.     By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 

In  "  Enoch  Arden "  we  have  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  pathetic  poems  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. Had  Tennyson  never  written  another  line, 
he  would  have  gone  down  in  history  as  one  of  the 
greatest  poets  of  his  time. 

RIP    VAN    WINKLE,    and    THE    LEGEND    OF 
SLEEPY  HOLLOW.     By  Washington  Irving. 

These  immortal  stories  of  Dutch  life  in  colonial 
New  York  are  the  best  pieces  of  writing  that  Mr. 
Irving  contributed  to  literature.  The  pathos,  quaint- 
ness,  and  wit  are  impressed  upon  the  reader  in  a 
striking  way. 

4 


ROCHEFOUCAULD'S  MAXIMS. 

These  maxims,  written  by  a  cavalier  of  Richelieu's 
times,  one  who  knew  the  world  as  few  have  an 
opportunity  of  knowing  it,  are  witty,  subtle,  and 
true.  The  author  has  grasped  the  whole  of  life, 
and  weakness  of  human  nature,  of  fashion  and  con- 
ventionalities are  strongly  depicted. 

RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.     By  Dr.  John  Brown. 

"  Rab  and  His  Friends,"  a  story  of  a  mastiff,  full 
of  beauty  and  pathos,  is,  in  its  line,  only  rivalled  by 
"  Black  Beauty."  In  this  volume  the  story  of  Mar- 
jorie  Fleming,  an  interesting  case  of  remarkable 
precociousness,  is  also  published. 

SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.     By  Oliver  Gold- 
smith. 
"  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  "  is  a  comedy  abounding 

in    the    keenest   wit    and    satire.      Human    nature    is 

depicted  by  a  masterly  observer,  and  the  characters 

of  the  play  are  true  to  life. 

OLD  CHRISTMAS.     By  Washington  Irving. 

An  ideal  picture  of  an  old-fashioned  Christmas 
in  rural  England.  The  good  old  customs,  and  the 
quaint  games  handed  down  from  generation  to 
generation,  are  pictured  in  a  most  interesting 


LEAVES     OF     GRASS.       Selections.      By    Walt 
Whitman. 

Walt  Whitman  is  looked  upon  as  the  one  dis- 
tinctive American  poet,  the  product  of  our  New 
World  democracy.  Though  perhaps  lacking  in 
grace,  his  poems  are  inspired  by  his  enthusiasm  and 
humanitarianism,  and  in  every  line  the  reader  sees 
the  personality  of  the  poet,  —  noble,  generous,  and 
lofty,  —  a  great  man  in  the  highest  sense  of  the 
word. 

s 


VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.     By  James  Russell 
Lowell. 

This  great  poem  is  drawn  from  the  famous  ro- 
mance of  King  Arthur  and  the  Holy  Grail,  a  theme 
which  has  furnished  inspiration  to  so  many  great 
minds.  The  "  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal "  is  the  best 
of  Lowell's  shorter  poems. 

ELEGY  AND  OTHER  POEMS.    By  Thomas  Gray. 

The  "  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard  "  occupies 
as  secure  a  place  among  English  classics  as  "  Ham- 
let "  or  "  Paradise  Lost,"  but  some  readers  may  not 
realize  that  several  other  poems  by  Gray  are  equally 
perfect  and  impressive.  This  collection  contains  all 
of  Gray's  verse  which  is  really  worth  knowing. 

SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT.    By  Matthew  Arnold. 

An  epoch-making  essay,  by  one  of  the  most  cul- 
tured, practical,  and  inspiring  minds  of  our  century. 
Arnold's  simplicity  and  charm  of  style,  no  less  than 
his  weighty  message,  have  already  given  him  an 
assured  place  among  classic  writers. 

GOLDEN  THOUGHTS.    By  Archbishop  Fenelon. 

Judiciously  made  extracts  from  the  letters  of  the 
great  archbishop.  Fenelon  united  in  his  personality 
the  sweetness  of  the  saint  with  the  strength  of  the 
reformer,  and  his  personal  correspondence  contains 
the  very  heart  and  soul  of  religious  devotion. 

WIT  AND  WISDOM.    By  Sidney  Smith. 

Extracts  from  Smith's  writing  and  conversations, 
which  flash  with  repartee,  good-tempered  satire,  and 
brilliant  strokes  of  wit,  and  are  characterized 
throughout  by  shrewd,  irresistible  common  sense. 
The  comments  on  America  and  Americans  are  alone 
worth  the  price  of  the  little  book. 
6 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL.    By  Charles  Dickens. 

This  familiar  story  possesses  perennial  interest 
for  young  and  old,  and  it  never  has  been  presented 
in  more  attractive  form.  Whether  regarded  as  a 
ghost  story,  a  character  study,  or  a  parable,  the 
"  Christmas  Carol  "  is  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and 
absorbing  tales  in  English  literature. 

WILL    O'   THE   MILL   AND    BIOGRAPHICAL 

SKETCH.    By  R.  L.  Stevenson. 

This  little  parable  of  a  life  contains  a  wonderful 
moral,  and  is  also  an  irresistibly  fascinating  story 
in  itself,  written  in  the  most  exquisite  English.  Many 
critics  think  it  Stevenson's  masterpiece.  It  is  pref- 
aced by  a  careful  and  adequate  biographical  sketch. 

NAPOLEON  ADDRESSES  AND  ANECDOTES. 

Napoleon  was  not  only  a  consummate  genius  as 
general  and  ruler,  he  was  also  a  man  of  extraor- 
dinary personality.  So  much  of  his  magnetism  and 
personal  charm  is  preserved  in  these  anecdotes  and 
speeches,  that  we  become  completely  en  rapport  with 
the  great  emperor,  and  cannot  fail  to  share  the 
enthusiasm  of  his  contemporaries.  The  selections 
were  made  with  greatest  care  especially  for  this 
edition. 


SOME     FRUITS     OF     SOLITUDE.      REFLEC- 
TIONS AND  MAXIMS.    By  William  Perm. 

"  To  quote  a  book  like  this  were  impossible;  at 
least  one  can  hand  it  on,  with  a  wrench,  one  to 
another.  Some  of  the  '  Fruits '  are  sounder,  jucier, 
and  grown  against  a  sunnier  wall  of  experience  than 
others,  but  all  are  delicate,  and  the  little  basket 
which  holds  them  will  be  found  in  all  times  and 
places  a  peaceful  and  sweet  companion."  —  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson. 


MEN  AND  WOMEN.     By  Robert  Browning. 

Browning  is  known  the  world  over  for  his  deep- 
veined  humanity  and  rare  faculty  of  dramatic  repre- 
sentation. These  poems  have  as  much  red  blood 
in  them  as  the  dramas  of  Shakespeare.  The  present 
volume  contains  all  the  principal  favorites  which 
have  sung  themselves  into  the  memory  of  every 
reader  who  loves  vigorous,  manly  poetry. 

PASSION  IN  THE  DESERT,  AND  AN  EPISODE 
IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR.  Selected  Prose 
Works  of  Honore  de  Balzac. 

Balzac  is  thought  by  many  competent  authorities 
to  be  the  greatest  novelist  of  the  world.  His  short 
stories  are  quite  as  remarkable  in  their  way  as  his 
longer  stories,  and  the  very  best  of  them  are  to  be 
found  in  the  present  collection. 

POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT.    By  Byron. 

Probably  no  poet  in  the  English-speaking  world 
has  ever  held  as  high  and  well  recognized  a  position 
as  a  "  sentimentalist "  as  George  Gordon,  Lord 
Byron.  His  master  lyrics  dealing  with  the  subject 
of  love,  consisting  principally  of  his  shorter  poems, 
have  been  selected  and  edited  with  the  greatest  care 
for  this  edition. 

LETTERS  TO  A  YOUNG  MAN  ABOUT  TOWN. 
By  William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

These  charming  but  comparatively  little  known 
essays  originally  appeared  in  Punch,  and  have  been 
reissued  in  a  volume  by  themselves  but  once,  and 
then  in  a  privately  printed  book  now  extremely  rare, 
until  the  present  edition.  In  his  humorous  and  satiri- 
cal manner,  Thackeray  shows  up  the  follies  and 
life  of  a  young  man  about  town  in  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century. 


8 


GOLDEN  WINGS.    A  Prose  Romance  and  a  Poem. 
By  William  Morris. 

Two  early  productions  of  Morris's  with  the  same 
title.  The  Prose  Romance,  written  in  1856  while  still 
a  student  at  Oxford,  and  the  Poem  two  years  later, 
both  of  which  show  the  irresistible  and  quaint  charm 
apparent  in  all  the  later  writings  of  this  architect, 
painter,  designer,  craftsman,  socialist  and  author,  — 
who,  on  the  death  of  Tennyson,  was  thought  by  many 
would  be  the  next  Poet  Laureate. 

SELECTED  POEMS.    By  John  Boyle  O'Reilly. 

Through  several  causes,  but  not  lack  of  merit,  Boyle 
O'Reilly  is  fast  becoming  merely  a  name  to  the  genera- 
tion of  to-day.  Therefore,  pains  have  here  been  taken 
to  perpetuate  the  choicest  productions  of  his  pen, — 
poems  worthy  of  rank  with  the  masterpieces  of  Eng- 
lish literature.  The  volume  is  prefaced  with  an  inter- 
esting personal  sketch  of  O'Reilly,  by  Mr.  William  A. 
Hovey. 

THE  DISCOURSES  OF  EPICTETUS.   Selections. 

In  Sir  John  Lubbock's  "  List  of  the  One  Hundred 
Best  Books,"  the  Bible  is  first,  the  "  Thoughts  of  Marcus 
Aurelius "  second,  and  "  Epictetus "  third.  The  dis- 
courses here  given  have  been  carefully  selected,  and  in 
each  case  the  English  revised  with  utmost  care. 

EVANGELINE.      By    Henry    Wadsworth    Long- 
fellow. 

The  purity,  sweetness  and  refinement  with  which 
Longfellow  delineates  the  affections  of  the  heart  make 
his  poetry  the  most  welcome  of  visitants  at  the  domestic 
fireside,  and  of  all  his  poems,  "  Evangeline  "  is  probably 
the  most  popular. 

THE  HOLY  GRAIL.    By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 

This  idyl,  which  must  rank  as  one  of  the  greatest 

9 


of  Tennyson's  poetical  achievements,  came  to  him 
suddenly,  "  as  if  by  a  breath  of  inspiration."  Of  it  the 
poet  said,  "I  feared  for  years  to  touch  the  subject  of 
the  Holy  Grail,  and  when  I  began,  finished  it  in  a  fort- 
night." 

Further  titles  in  preparation* 


10 


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